UMMitMH 



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I .ROBERT 
B^libWNING 

SELECTED I 
POEMS 

AND 

SSES 
[olps 




Class _J^.Sa1_L£_ 
Book___._T___ 
Gopyriglit N° _ ; ii 3 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



©lie 

General Editor 

LINDSAY TODD DAMON, A.B. 

Professor of English in Brown University 



ADDISON— r;?e Sir Roger de Corerley Papers — Abbott 36c 

ADDISON AND STEEl,E— Selections from The Tatler and The Spec- 

tator — ABBOTT ^Oc 

^neid of Virgil — ALLINSON 44c 

BROWNING — Selected Poe7?2s— Reynolds 44c 

BUN YAN — TJie Pilgrim's Progress — Latham 36c 

BURKE — Speech on Conciliation icith America — Denney 36c 

CARLYLE — Essay on Burns — Aiton 28c 

CHAUCER — SeZemons— GREENLAW 40c 

COLERIDGE- r;;e Ancient Mariner ) ^,„, _^j„„^^ 28c 

LOWELL — Vision of Sir Launfal \ 

COOPER — The Last of the Mohicans — Lewis 44c 

COOPER — The Spy — Damon ^ 44c 

DANA — Tiro Years Before the .1/asz— Westcott 52c 

DEFOE — Robinson Crwsoe— Hastings 40c 

Democracy Today— Gauss 48c 

DE OUINCEY — Joan of Arc and Selections — Moody 32c 

DE OUINCEY — The Flight of a Tartar Tribe— Frkscb 28c 

DICKENS— A Christmas Carol, etc.— Broadvs 40c 

DICKENS — A Tale of Tito Ci/ies— Baldwin 52c 

DICKENS— Z)rtrid Copperfield — Baldwin 52c 

DRYDEN — Palamon and Arcite — Cook 28c 

EMERSON — Essays and Addresses — Heydrick 40c 

English Poems— Frow Pope. Gray. Goldsmith, Coleridge. Byron, 

Macaulay. Arnold, and otliers — Scudder 52c 

English Popular Ballads— Hart 44c 

Essays — English and American — Aldsn 48c 

Familiar Letters— Greenlaw 40c 

FRANKLIN — Autobiography — Griffin 36c 

French Short Stories— Schweikert 40c 

GASKELL (Mrs.)— Cran/oT-d- Hancock 40c 

GEORGE ELIOT— SiZas Marner — Hancock 40c 

GEORGE ELIOT — TJie Mill on the Floss — Ward 52c 

GOLDSMITH — The Vicar of Wakefield— MORToy 36c 

HAWTHORNE — The House of the Seren GaWes— Herrick 44c 

HAWTHORNE — Twice-Told Tales— Herrick and Bruere 52c 

HUGHES — Tom Broicn's School Days — de Mille 44c 

IRVING— Li/e of Goldsmith — Krapp 44c 

IKVING-The Sketch Boofc— Krapp 44c 

IRVING — Tales of a Traveller — and parts of The Sketch Book — Krapp 52c 



JCJjF Slake Stlgltfilt (UlUBBXtB-tantmuth 

LAMB — Essays of EUa— Benedict 40c 

LONGFELLOW — Narrative Poems— Powell 44c 

LOWELL— Fisiow of Sir Launfal—See Coleridge. 

MACAULAY — Essays on Addison and Johnson — Newcomer 40c 

MACAULAY — Essays on Clive and Hastings — Newcomer 40c 

MACAULAY — Goldsmith, Frederic the Great, Madame D'Arblay — New- 
comer 40c 

MACAULAY — Essays on Milton and Addison — Newcomer 40c 

MILTON — L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Camus, and Lycidas — Neilson. . . . 32c 

MILTON — Paradise Lost, Books I and II — Farley 32c 

Old Testament Narratives — Rhodes 44c 

One Hundred Narrative Poems — Teter 48c 

PALGRAVE — Golden Treasury — Newcomer 48c 

PARKMAN — The Oregon Trail — Macdonald 44c 

POE — Poems and Tales, Selected — Newcomer 40c 

POPE— Homer's Iliad, Books I, VI. XXII. XXIV— Cressy and Moody 32c 

READE — The Cloister and The Hearth— de Mille 52c 

RV SKIN— Sesame and Lilies — Linn 28c 

Russian Short Stories— SCHAVEIKERT 44c 

SCOTT — Ivanhoe — Simonds 52c 

SCOTT — Quentin Duruard — Simonds 52c 

SCOTT — Lady of the Lake — Moody 40c 

SCOTT — Lay of the Last Minstrel — Moody and Willard 30c 

SCOTT — Marmion — Moody and Willard 40c 

SHAKSPERE — The Neilson Edition— "EiMteA by W. A. Neilson, each 32c 

As You Like It Macbeth 

Hamlet Midsummer-Night's Dream 

Henry V Romeo and Juliet 

Julius Caesar The Tempest 

Twelfth Night 

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SOUTHEY— Li/e of Nelson — Westcott 40c 

STEVENSON — Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey — Lbonard. 36c 

STEVENSON — Kidnapped — Leonard 36c 

STEVENSON — Treasure Island — Broadtjs 36c 

TENNYSON — Selected Poems — Reynolds 44c 

TENNYSON— r/ic Princess — Copeland 28c 

THOREAU — Walden — Bowman 44c 

THACKERAY — Henry Esmond— Fbei^vs 60c 

THACKERAY — English Humorists— Cvnliffe and Watt 36c 

Three American Poems — The Raven, Snow-Bound, Miles Standish — 

Greever 32c 

Types of the Short Story — Heydrick 40c 

Washington, Webster, Lincoln — Denney 36c 



SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 

CHICAGO : 623 S. Wabash Ave. NEW YORK : 8 East 34th Street 



trtc lakt CngliiSi) Classics 



REVISED EDITION WITH HELPS TO STUDY 

SELECTIONS 

FROM 

THE POEMS AND PLAYS 

OF 

ROBERT BROWNING 



EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 
BY 

MYRA REYNOLDS, Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE THE 
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 



SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 
CHICAGO NEW YORK 






COPYRIGHT, 1009. 1919, BY 
SCOTT FORESMAX AND COMPANY 



ROBERT O. LAW COMPANY 

EDITION BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
CHICAGO. U.S.A. 



MA.. 31 )9i9 
'CI.A515083 






CONTENTS 



IXTROUUCTIOX FACE 

I. The Life of Browning 7 

II. The Poetry of Browning 32 

BiBLIOGRAPIir 57 

Chronoloqical Table 60 

Selectioxs from Browxing — 

Songs from Paracelsus . 65 

Cavalier Tunes , . 69 

The Lost Leader 72 

''How^ They Brought the Good News" 73 

Garden Fancies 76 

Meeting at Night , ... 78 

Parting at Morning 78 

Evelyn Hope „ 78 

Love Among the Ruins 81 

Up at a Villa— Down in the City 84 

A Toccata of Galuppi's 88 

Old Pictures in Florence , ... 91 

"De Gustibus— " ...... o .... . 101 

Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 103 

Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 104 

Saul 105 

My Star 126 

Two in the Cam.pagna 126 

In Three Days 129 

The Guardian-Angel .... 130 

Memorabilia 132 

Incident of the French Camp ........ 133 

My Last Duchess 135 

The Boy and the Angel . . . . . . . . .137 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin ........ 141 



6 CONTENTS 

The Flight of the Duchess 152 

A Grammarian's Funeral . . . o 183 

"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" . . . .189 

How It Strikes a Contemporary 196 

Fra Lippo Lippi ........ o .. . 200 

Andrea Del Sarto 213 

The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church . 222 

Cleon ..,. = ..... 227 

One Word More 239 

Abt Vogler * 247 

Rabbi Ben Ezra 253 

Caliban Upon Setebos 260 

May and Death 271 

Prospice 272 

A Face 273 

O Lyric Love 274 

Prologue to Pacchiarotto 275 

Herve Riel 282 

Good to Forgive 289 

"Such a Starved Bank of Moss" ....... 290 

Epilogue to the Two Poets of Croisic ..... 290 

Pheidippides . . . 295 

Muleykeh 302 

"Wanting Is— What" . 309 

Never the Time and the Place 310 

The Patriot 311 

Instans Tyrannus 312 

The Italian in England 31 5 

"Round Us the Wild Creatures" 321 

Prologue to Asolando 321 

Summum Bonum 323 

Epilogue to Asolando 324 

Pippa Passes • 325. 

APPENDIX— 

H,elps to Study 438 

English Versification 445 



INTRODUCTION 

THE LIFE OF BROWNING 

Robert Browning, the poet, was the third of that name. 
The first Robert Browning, a man of energy and abihty, held 
an important post in the Bank of England. His wife,, Mar- 
garet Tittle, was a Creole from the West Indies, and at the 
time of her marriage her property was still in the estates 
owned by her father near St. Kitts. When their son, the 
second Robert, was seven years of age, his mother died, and 
his father afterwards married again. The second wife's 
ascendency over her husband was unfortunately exerted 
against the best interests of the son. His desire to becom.e 
an artist, his wish for a university training, were disregarded, 
and he was sent instead to St. Kitts, where he was given em- 
ployment on his mother's sugar plantations. The breach 
between Robert and his father became absolute when the bov 
defied local prejudice by teaching a negro to read, and when, 
because of what his father considered a sentimental objection 
to slavery, he finally refused to remain in the West Indies. 
The young man returned to England and at twenty-two 
started on an independent career as a cierk in the Bank of 
England. In 1811 he married Sarah Anne Wiedemann. 
They settled in Camberwell, London, where Robert, the poet, 
was born. May 7, 1812, and his sister Sarianna in 1814. 

Browning's father was a competent official in the Bank 
and a successful business man, but his tastes were aesthetic 
and literary, and his leisure time was accordingly devoted to 

7 



8 INTRODUCTION 

such pursuits as the collection of old books and manu- 
scripts. He also read widely in both classic and modern 
literatures. The first book of the Iliad he knew by heart, and 
all the Odes of Horace, and he was accustomed to soothe his 
child to sleep by humming to him snatches of Anacreon to the 
lune of A Cottage in the Wood. Mr. Browning had also 
considerable skill in two realms of art, for he drew vigorous 
portraits and caricatures^ and he had, even according to his 
son's mature judgment, extraordinary force and facility in 
verse-making. In character he was serene, lovable, gentle, 
^'tenderhearted to a fault." So instinctively chivalrous was 
he that there was ** no service which the ugliest, oldest, crossest 
woman in the world might not have exacted of him." He 
was a man of great physical vigor, dying at the age of eighty- 
four without ever having been ill. 

Browning's mother was the daughter of William Wiede- 
mann, a German who had settled in Dundee and married a 
Scotch wife. Mrs. Browning impressed all who knew her 
by her sweetness and goodness. Carlyle spoke of her as *' the 
true type of a Scottish gentlewoman;" her son's friend, Mr. 
Kenyon, said that such as she had no need to go to heaven, 
because they made it wherever they were; and her son called 
her **a divine woman." She had deep religious instincts and 
concerned herself particularly with her son's moral and 
spiritual development. The bond between them was always 
very strong, and when she died in 1849 his wife wrote, "He 
has loved his mother as such passionate natures can love, and 
I never saw a man so bowed down in an extremity of sorrow — 
never." 

Robert Browning's childhood was passed in an unusuall}; 
serene and happy home. \n .Development he tells how, at 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 9 

five years of age, he was made to understand the main facts 
of the Trojan War by his father's clever use of the cat, 
the dogs, the pony in the stable, and the page-boy, to imper- 
sonate the heroes of that ancient conflict. Latin declensions 
were taught the child by rhymes concocted by his father as 
memory-easing devices. Stories and even lessons were made 
intelligible and vivid by colored maps and comic drawings. 
Until the boy was fourteen, his schooling was of the most 
casual sort, his only formal training being such as he 
received in the comparatively unimportant three or four 
years he spent, after he was ten, at Mr. Ready's private 
school. His real education came, through all his early life, 
from his home. What would now be called nature-study he 
pursued ardently and on his own initiative in the home garden 
and neighboring fields. His love for animals was inherited 
from his mother and fostered by her. He used to keep, says 
Mrs. Orr in her account of his life, "owls and monkeys, mag- 
pies and hedge-hogs, an eagle, and even a couple of large 
snakes, constantly bringing home the more portable animals 
in his pockets and transferring them to his mother for im- 
mediate care." Browning says that his faculty of observation 
at this time would not have disgraced a Seminole Indian. In 
the matter of reading he was not entirely without advice and 
guidance, but was, on the whole, allowed unusual freedom of 
choice. He afterwards told Mrs. Orr that Milton, Quarles, 
Voltaire, Mandeville, and Horace Walpole were the authors 
in whom, as a boy, he particularly delighted. His love for 
art was established and developed by visits to the Dulwich 
picture gallery of which he afterward wrote to Miss Barrett 
with **love and gratitude" because he had been allowed to go 
there before the age prescribed by the rules, and had thus 



10 INTRODUCTION 

learned to know *'a wonderful Rembrandt," a Watteau, 
** three triumphant Murillos," a Giorgione Music Lesson, and 
various Poussins. His marked early susceptibility to music is 
evidenced by an incident narrated by Mr. Sharp: "One 
afternoon his mother was playing in the twilight to herself. 
She was startled to hear a sound behind her. Glancing round 
she beheld a little white figure distinct against an oak book- 
case, and could just discern two large wistful eyes looking 
earnestly at her. The next moment the child had sprung 
into her arms, sobbing passionately at he knew not what, but, 
as his paroxysm subsided, whispering with shy urgency: 
'Play! Play."' 

In various ways tne boy Robert was noticeably precocious. 
He could not remember a time, he said, when he did not rhyme, 
and his sister records that as a very little boy he used to walk 
around the table ''spanning out on the smooth mahogany 
the scansion of verses he had composed." Some of these 
early lines he could recall, and he could recall, too, the prodi- 
gious satisfaction with which he uttered them, especially the 
sentence he put into the mouth of a man who had just com- 
mitted murder ; "Now my soul is satisfied." At twelve he had 
a volume named Incondita ready for publication. To dis- 
cerning eyes the little volume was a production of great 
promise, dominated though it was by the influence of his 
father's idol, Pope, and of his own temporary ruling deity, 
Byron. But a publisher was not found, and in later years, at 
Browning's request, the two extant manuscript copies of 
Incondita were destroyed, along with many others of his 
youthful poems that had been preserved by his father. 

Browning's early tastes in the realm of poetry were, on the 
whole, romantic. "Now here is the truth," he wrote to Miss 



THE LIFE OF BRO WANING 11 

Barrett, "the first book I ever bought in my hfe was Ossian — 
and years before that the first composition I ever was guilty of 
was something in imitation of Ossian whom I had not read, 
but conceived, through two or three scraps in other books." 
But the decisive hterary influence was yet to come. When he 
was fourteen he happened to see on a bookstall a voluinc 
marked, "Mr. Shelley's Atheistical Poem. Very Scarce," 
and he at once wished to know more of this INlr. Shelley. 
After a perplexing search his mother found the desired poems, 
most of them in first editions, at the Olliers, Vere Street, 
London. She took home also three volumes by another poet, 
John Keats, who, she was told, was the subject of an ele^y 
by Shelley. Browning never forgot the May evening when he 
first read these new books, to the accompaniment, he said, 
of two nightingales, one in a copper-beech, one in a laburnum, 
each striving to outdo the other in melody. A new imagina- 
tive world was opened to the boy. In Memorabilia he after- 
wards recorded the strong intellectual and emotional excite- 
ment, the thrill and ecstasy of this poetical experience. To 
Shelley especially did he give immediate and fervid personal 
loyalty, even to the extent of endeavoring to follow him in 
"atheism," and vegetarianism. 

When at fourteen the boy left INIr. Ready's school it was 
decided that his further education should be carried on at 
home under private tutors. He studied music under able 
masters, one in thorough-bass, and one in execution. He 
played and sang, and he composed spirited settings for songs. 
He read voraciously. He took lessons in dancing, riding, 
boxing, and fencing, and is said to have shown himself ex- 
ceptionally active and vigorous. He kept up his interest in 
art, and he practiced drawing from casts. He found time 



12 INTRODUCTION 

also for various friendships. For Miss Eliza and Miss Sarah 
Flower, two sisters, nine and seven years his senior, he had a 
deep affection. Both young ladles were gifted in music, and 
this was one source of their attraction for the music-loving 
boy. Miss Sarah Flower wrote sacred hymns, the best 
known of which Is Nearer my God to Thee, and her sister 
composed music which Browning, even in his mature years, 
ranked as of especial significance. Other friends of this 
period Avere Joseph Arnold, afterwards Chief Justice of Bom- 
bay, and a man of great ability ; Alfred Domett, a striking and 
interesting personality described by Browning in a poem 
beginning Whafs become of Waring, and referred to in The 
Guardian Angel; and the three Silverthorne boys, his cousins, 
the death of one of whom was the occasion of the poem, May 
and Death. 

In spite of friends, a beautiful home, and congenial work, 
this period of home tutelage does not seem to have been alto- 
gether happy. His sister In commenting on this period said, 
"The fact was, poor boy, he had outgrown his social sur- 
roundings. They were absolutely good but they were nar- 
row; it could not be otherwise; he chafed under them." 
Furthermore, the youth, before he had found his real work as 
a poet, was restless, irritable, and opinionated; and an ever- 
present cause of friction was the fact that there were few sub- 
jects of taste on which he and his father did not disagree. 
Their poetic tastes were especially at variance. The father 
counted Pope supreme in poetry, and It was many years before 
he could take pleasure In the form in which his son's genius 
expressed itself. All the more noteworthy, then, is the 
generosity with which Mr. Browning looked after his son's 
interests through the unprofitable early years of his poetic 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 13 

career, a -enerosity never lost sight of by the son. INIr. Sharp 
in his Life of Browning records some words uttered by Mr. 
Brownin- a week or two before his death, which show how 
permanent was his sense of indebtedness to his father. ''It 
would have been quite unpardonable in my case," he said, 
- not to have done my best. My dear father put me m a con- 
dition most favorable for the best work I was capable of. 
When I think of the many authors who have had to fight 
their way through all sorts of difficulties, I have no reason to 
be proud of my achievements. ... He secured for me 
all the care and comfort that a literary man needs to do good 
work. It would have been shameful if I had not done my 
best to reahze his expectations of me." 

\fter it was determined that Robert should commence 
poet " he and his father came to the conclusion that a uni- 
versity training had many elements foreign to the ann the 
youth had set before him, and that a richer and more directly 
available preparation could be gained from - sedulous culti^ 
vation of the powers of his mind" at home, and from seeing 
life in the best sense" at home and abroad. Mrs. Orr tells 
us that the first qualifying step of the zealous young poet was 
to read and digest the whole of Dr. Johnson's Dictionary. 

Browning's first published poem, Pauline, appeared 
anonymously in January, 1833, when he was twenty years 
old ^ This poem is of especial autobiographical interest. 
Its "enthusiastic praise of Shelley recalls his early devotion 
to that poet, and in many scattered passages we find references 
to his own personality or experiences. The following lines 
show with what intensity he re-created the lives and scenes m 
the books he read: 



14 INTRODUCTION 

"And I myself went with the tale — a god 

Wandering after beauty, or a giant 

Standing vast in the sunset — a:i old hunter 

Talking with gods, or a high-crested chief 

Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos. 

I tell you, naught has ever been so clear 

As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives: 

I had not seen a work of lofty art, 

Nor woman's beauty nor sweet nature's face, 

Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those 

On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea. 

The deep groves and white temples and wet caves: 

And nothing ever will surprise me now — 

A^'ho stood beside the naked Swift-footed, 

Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair." 

There is true and owerful self-analysis in the lines be- 
ginning: 

"I am made up of an intensest life;" 

and the invocation in lines 811-85-1 reveals the passionately 
religious nature of the young poet. In The Early Writings 
of Robert Browning'^ Mr. Gosse gives an account of the im- 
pression made by this poem upon men so diverse as the Rev. 
William Johnson Fox, John Stuart Mill, and Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti, to all of whom, in spite of its crudities and very 
evident immaturity, it seemed a production of exceptional 
promise. 

After an interval of two years Browning published; 
this time under his own name, a second long poem. The 
subject, Paracelsus, had been suggested by the friend, Am^dee 
de Ripert-Monclar, to whom the poem is dedicated. In 
pursuance of his purposed rehabilitation of a vanished age 
Browning made extensive researches in the British Museum 

^The Century, December, ISsl, Vol XXIIi. pp. 189-200. 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 15 

into the history of Paracelsus, the great leader in sixteenth 
century medical science; but in the poem the facts are sub- 
ordinated to a minute analysis of the spiritual history of Para- 
celsus. The poem was too abstruse in subject and style to 
bring Browning popularity, but his genius was recognized by 
important critics, and, though he was but twenty-three, he 
was admitted into the foremost literary circles of London. 
One of his most distinguished new friends was jMr. INIacready, 
the great actor. It was at his house that Browning first met 
Mr. Forster, who had already written favorable critiques of 
Paracelsus, one ior The Examiner and one for The Neiv 
Monthly Magazine. Other literary associates of this period 
were Leigh Hunt, Barry Cornwall, Sergeant Talfourd, Dick 
ens, and Walter Savage Landor. There were not infrequent 
dinners and suppers to which the young poet was welcomed. 
He is described as being at this period singularly handsome. 
" He looks and acts," said Mr. Macready, ** more like a youth- 
ful poet than any man I ever saw." He had sculpturesque 
masses of dark wavy hair, a skin like delicate ivory, deep-set, 
expressive eyes, and a sensitive month. He was slender, 
graceful, and most attractive in manner, and he was some- 
thing of a dandy in his attention to dress. He is said to have 
made an especially good impression on one occasion when the 
circumstances must have been as trying as they were ex- 
hilarating. In May, 1S36, a group of poets had assembled 
at Mr. Talfourd's to celebrate Macready's successful produc- 
tion of Talfourd's Io7i. Browning sat opposite Macready 
who was between Wordsworth and Landor. When Talfourd 
proposed a toast, "The Poets of England," he spoke in com- 
plimentary terms of Wordsworth and Landor but called for a 
response from 'Hhe youngest of the Poets of England, the 



16 INTRODUCTION 

author of Paracelsus'' Landor raised his cup, to the young 
man, and Wordsworth shook hands with him across the table 
saying, '*I am proud to know you Mr. Browning." 

Browning's third literary venture was a tragedy, Strafford, 
dedicated to Macready, at whose request it was written. The 
drama presents the impeachment, condemnation, and execu- 
tion of the Earl of Strafford, a statesman who, according to the 
play, loved the unworthy king Charles the First and sacrificed 
everything, even to life itself, in his blind loyalty to a master 
who treacherously deserted him in the hour of need. It was 
a topic to which Browning had already given much thought, 
for he had the preceding year completed, from materials 
supplied by Mr. John Forster, a Life of Strafford begun by 
Forster for Lardner's Eminent British Statesmen} The ques- 
tion of the historic truthfulness of the drama is discussed by 
the historian Gardiner in the Introduction to Miss Emily H. 
Hickey's edition of Strafford. He shows that the play is in 
its details and ''even in the very roots of the situation" untrue 
to fact, and yet he maintains that in the chief characters there 
is essential truth of conception. "Every time that I read the 
play," says Gardiner, '*I feel more certain that Browning has 
seized the real Strafford . . . Charles, too, with his faults 
perhaps exaggerated, is nevertheless the real Charles." The 
play was produced at Covent Garden Theater in May, 1837, 
with Macready as Strafford and Miss Helen Faucit as Lady 
Carlisle, and was successful in spite of poor scenery and 
costuming and poor acting in some of the parts. But owing 
to the financial condition of the theater and the consequent 
withdrawal of one of the important actors after the fifth night, 

^See the article by Mr. F. J. Furaivall in the Pall Mall Gazette for 
April. 1890, 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 17 

the play had but a brief run. It was presented again in 
1886 under the auspices of the Browning Society, and its 
power as an acting play ''surprised and impressed" the 
audience. 

Before the composition of Strafford Browning had begun a 
long poem, Sordello, which he completed after his first visit 
to Italy in 1838, and published in 1840. No one of his 
poems is more difficult to read, and many are the stories 
told of the dismay occasioned by its various perplexities. The 
effect of this poem on Browning's fame was disastrous. In 
fact, after Sordello there began a period, twenty years long, of 
almost complete indifference in England to Browning's work. 
The enthusiasm over the promise of his early poems died quite 
away. Late in life Mr. Browning commented on this period 
of his literary career as a time of ''prolonged desolateness." 
Yet the years 1841-1846 are the years in which he attained 
his poetic maturity, and years in which he did r>ome of his best 
work. During this period he brought out the series some- 
what fancifully called Bells and Pomegranates. The phrase 
itself comes from Exodus XXVIII : 33, 34. As a title Browning 
explained it to mean "something like a mixture of music with 
discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought.'^ This 
cheap serial edition, the separate numbers of which sold at 
first at sixpence and later at half a crown, included Pippa 
Passes, King Victor and King Charles, Dramatic Lyrics^ 
The Return of the Druses, A Blot in the ^Scutcheon, Colombes 
Birthday, Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, Luria, and A Soul's 
Tragedy. 

All of Browning's plays except Strafford and /n a Balcony, 
came out in this series. The most beautiful of them all, Pippa 
Passes, appeared in 1841. It is hardly a drama at all in the 



18 INTRODUCTION 

conventional sense, though it has one scene, that between 
Ottima and Sebald, of the highest dramatic power; but it has 
always been a favorite with readers. When it was pub- 
Ushed Miss Barrett wrote to Mr. Browning that she found 
it in her heart to covet the authorship of this poem more than 
any other of his works, and he said in answer that he, too, 
Uked Pippa better than anything else he had yet done. Mr. 
Sharp, while emphasizing the undramatic quality of the play, 
counts it ''the most imperishable because the most nearly 
immaculate of Browning's dramatic poems." *'It seems to 
me," he adds, "Hke all simple and beautiful things, pro- 
found enough for the sinking plummet of the most curious 
explorer of the depths of life. It can be read, re-read, learned 
by heart, and the more it is known the wider and more alluring 
are the avenues of imaginative thought which it discloses. 
It has, mor*^ than any other long composition by its author, 
that quality of symmetry, that symmetria prisca recorded of 
Leonardo da Vinci in the Latin epitaph of Platinp Piatto; 
and, as might be expected, its mental basis, w^hat Rossetti 
called fundamental brain work, is as luminous, depth within 
depth, as the morning air . . . Everyone who knows 
Browning at all knows Pippa Passes." 

Of the seven dramas published in Bells and Pomegranates 
there is comparatively little stage history to record. In 
spite of occasional fairly successful productions it must be 
admitted that Browning's plays have never achieved, 
probably never will achieve, popularity in the shape of long 
runs in many cities.^ They are too subjective, too analytic, 

*The first production of Pippa Passes was given in Copley Hall, Boston, 
in 1899, with an arrangement in six scenes by Miss Helen A. Clarke. The 
Return of the Druses was arranged and presented by Miss Charlotte Porter 
in 1902 and was a dramatic success. .4 Blot in the 'Scufc/ieon was brought 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 19 

too psychological, for quick or easy understanding. But to 
the reader they offer many delights. The stories are clear, 
coherent, interesting; the characters strongly individualized; 
the crises of experience stimulating; the interaction of 
personalities subtly analyzed; the poetry noble and beautiful. 

The two non-dramatic numbers of Bells and Pomegranates 
were Dramatic Lyrics (No. 3, 1842) and Dramatic Romances 
and Lyrics (No. 7, 1845). The first included such poems as 
Cavalier Tunes, In a Gondola, Porphyria, and The Pied 
Piper of Hamelin; the second included How they Brought 
the Good News from Ghent to Aix, The Lost Leader, The Tomb 
at St. Praxed's, The Flight of the Duchess, The Boy and the 
Angrl, and the first part of Smd. These poems together with 
the dramas make a remarkably rich body of poetry to be pro- 
duced in the short space of five years. And the character 
of the work, its variety and beauty and strength and origi- 
nality, were such that its meager and grudging acceptance 
seems now inexplicable. 

The most important event in the life of Browning during 
this period was his acquaintance with Miss Elizabeth Barrett. 

out by Macready, with Phelps in the chief part and with Miss Helen Faucit 
as Mildred. It was played to crowded houses and received much applause. 
It was revived by Phelps at Sadler's Wells in 1848; and by the Browning 
Society in 1885 at St. George's Hall, London. In the winter of that year 
the play was given in Washington by Lawrence Barrett. It has also within 
a few years been admirably presented by Mrs. Lemo>nie in New York and 
elsewhere. Colombe's Birthday, which was published in 1844, was not 
put upon the stage till 1853, when it was performed at the Haymarket 
Theater in London with Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) as Colombe. It was 
performed in Boston in 1854 and enthusiastically received. It was revived 
in 1885 with Miss Alma Murray as Colombe, when it was commented on 
as being "charming on the boards, clearer, more direct in action, more 
picturesque, more full of delicate surprises than one imagines it in print." 
It was also successfully produced at McVicker's Theater, Chicago, in 
November, 1894, with Miss Marlowe as ColomJ^e. 



20 INTRODUCTION 

In 1844 she brought out a new volume of poems which he saw 
and greatly admired. He wrote to her expressing delight in 
her work and asking permission to call; but Miss Barrett, 
owing to long continued invalidism, had lived in almost entire 
seclusion, and she was not at first willing to receive Mr- 
Browning. This was in January, 1845, and many letters 
passed between them before the first interview in the following 
May. Mr. Browning's love for Miss Barrett found almost 
immediate expression and she was soon conscious of an equal- 
ly strong love for him, but for a considerable time she per- 
sistently refused to marry him. To her mind the obstacles 
were almost insurmountable. Of these her ill-health was 
chief. She could not consent, she said, to dim the pros- 
perities of his career by a union with her future, which she 
characterized as a precarious thing, a thing for making bur- 
dens out of — but not for his carrying. In exchange for the 
"noble extravagancies" of his love she could bring him only 
"anxiety and more sadness than he was born to." This 
obstacle of ill-health was unexpectedly modified by a very 
mild winter and by the new physical vigor brought in the 
train of new happiness. From this point of view the mar- 
riage, though hazardous, was practicable by the end of the 
summer of 1846. A second obstacle lay in the nature and 
opinions of Miss Barrett's father, who governed even his 
grown up children by "an incredible system of patriarchal 
absolutism." By what was variously termed an obliquity of 
the will, an eccentricity, a monomania, he had decided that 
none of his children should marry, and on this point he de- 
manded "passive obedience." It was perfectly clear that Miss 
Barrett could not gain his consent to her marriage, and so, 
after long hesitation and much unhappiness, she decided to 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 21 

marry Mr. Browning without that consent. In order to save 
her family and close friends from the blame sure to fall upon 
them for the remotest sanction of her marriage, her plans 
were kept an absolute secret. She met Mr. Browning at 
Marylebone Church on September 12, 1846, and they were 
married there, Mrs. Browning returning at once to her own 
home, where she remained till a week later, when she started 
for Italy with her husband. The wedding was then an- 
nounced. Throughout her father's life Mrs. Browning 
endeavored to placate him, for she devotedly loved him and 
she had been his favorite child, but in vain. He would never 
see her again, he returned her letters unopened, and he would 
not allow her to be spoken of in his presence. 

After resting a week in Paris INIr. and Mrs. Browning went 
on to Pisa, where they remained nearly seven months. The 
"miracle" of the Pisa life was Mrs. Browning's gain in health. 
"You are not improved, you are transformed,'^ was Mrs. 
Jameson's exclamation. It was at Pisa that ]Mr. Brownintr 
came to know of the sonnets his wife had written during the 
progress of their courtship and engagement. In Critical Kit- 
Kats (1896) Mr. Gosse tells the story as Mr. Browning gave 
it to him: "One day, early in 1847, their breakfast being 
over, Mrs. Browning went up stairs, while her husband stood 
at the window watching the street till the table could be 
cleared. He was presently aware of some one behind him, 
although the servant had gone. It was ]\Irs. Browning who 
held him by the shoulder to prevent his turning to look at her, 
and at the same time pushed a packet of papers into the 
pocket of his coat. She told him to read that and to tear it up 
if he did not like it; and then she fled again to her room." 
Mr. Browning felt at once that he had no right to keep such 



22 INTRODUCTION 

poetry as a private possession. **I dared not," he said, 
"reserve to myself the finest sonnets written in any language 
since Shakespeare's." They were accordingly published in 
1850, under the intentionally mystifying title. Sonnets from 
the Porfugucsc. 

The Brownings reached Florence April 20, 1847. After 
several changes they were, in May, 1848, established in the 
home in which they remained during Mrs. Browning's life. 
It was a suite of rooms on the second floor of the Palazzo Guidi. 
Of the practical side of this early Florentine life, Mrs. Brown- 
ing wrote, "My dear brothers have the illusion that nobody 
should marry on less than two thousand a year. Good 
heavens! how preposterous it does seem to me! We scarcely 
spend three hundred, and I have every luxury I ever had, and 
which it would be so easy to give up, at need; and llubeit 
wouldn't sleep, I think, if an unpaid bill dragged itself by any 
chance into another week. He says that when people get into 
pecuniary difficulties his sympathies always go with the 
butchers and the bakers." In accordance with this horror of 
owing five shillings five days, the furnishings of the new home, 
"the rococo chairs, spring sofas, carved book-cases, satin from 
cardinals' beds, and the rest," were accumulated at a pace 
dictated by the bank account, but for all that it was not long 
before the rooms began to take on an aspect as beautiful as it 
was homelike. 

By preference the Brownings lived very quietly. At tne 
end of fifteen months Mrs. Browning wrote, "Robert has not 
been out an evening of the fifteen months; but what with 
music and books and writing and talking, we scarcely know 
how the days go, it's such a gallop on the grass." March 9, 
1849, was born Wiedemann, later known as 'Penini' or 'Pen' 



THE LIFE OF BRO^YNTNH 23 

Browning. Coincident with this joy was the grief caused by 
the death of Browning's mother, a sorrow from which he 
ralUed but slowly. The Florentine life was occasionally 
varied by summers at Bagni di Lucca, winters in Paris or 
Rome, and several visits to England. There was also an 
increasing social life. Americans were especially welcome to 
the Brownings because, while England was still indifferent 
to Browning's work, iVmerica had given it an appreciative 
welcome. In March, 1861, Mrs. Browning wrote, "I don't 
complain for myself of an unappreciative public. I have 
no reason. But just for that reason I complain more 
about Robert ... In America he is a power, a 
writer, a poet — he is read, he lives in the hearts of the 
people."^ 

Among the Americans associated with the Brownings for 
longer or shorter periods during their life in Florence were 
two distinguished women, Margaret Fuller Ossoli and Harriet 
Beecher Stowe. In 1847, George William Curtis spent two 
days with the Brownings at Vallombrosa, a visit later described 
in his Easy Chair. Mr. Field, who had brought out the 
American reprint of the two-volume edition of Browning's 
poems in 1849, was a guest at Casa Guidi in 1852. Charles 
Sumner writes of ''delicious Tuscan evenings" with the 
Brownings and the Storys in 1859. Mr. Browning's interest 
in art led to friendships with American artists, among whom 
were Mr. Page, who painted a successful portrait of Brown- 

'An interesting corroboration of Mrs. Browning's words is found in the 
fact that the 1868 edition of Browning's works by Smith Eider and Co., 
was reprinted as Numbers 1-19 of the Official Guide of the Chicago and 
Alto^ R. R., and Monthly Reprint and Advertiser, edited by Mr. James 
Charlton. A copy is in the British Museum. The reprint appeared in 
1872-4. See Mrs. Orr's bibliography. 



24 INTRODUCTION 

ing; INIiss Harriet Hosmer, to whom Mr. and INIrs. Browning 
finally consented to sit for the ** Clasped Hands;" and Hiram 
Powers. The dearest American friends were, however, Mr. 
and ]\Irs. Hawthorne and Mr. and Mrs. Story. 

Music and art were among Browning's chief delights in 
Florence. George William Curtis in describing the trip to 
Vallombrosa says that it was part of their pleasure to sit in 
the dusky convent chapel while Browning at the organ 
"chased a fugue of Master Hughes of Saxe Gotha, or dreamed 
out upon twilight keys a faint throbbing toccata of Galuppi's." 
Modeling in clay was even more satisfying as a personal 
resource. In the autumn of 1860 Mrs. Browning wrote, 
''Robert has taken to modeling under Mr. Story (at his studio) 
and is making extraordinary progress, turning to account his 
studies in anatomy. He has copied already two busts, the 
young Augustus and the Psyche, and is engaged on another, 
enchanted with his new trade, working six hours a day." 
Some months later she added, "The modeling combines 
body-work and soul-work, and the more tired he has been, 
and the more his back ached, poor fellow, the more he has 
exulted and been happy — ' no, nothing ever made him so happy 
before.'' " He found, also, an unfailing pleasure in the study 
of great pictures. And he was a buyer of pictures with a 
collector's delight in hunting out the work of the unappre- 
ciated early Tuscan artists. Mrs. Orr says that he owned at 
least one picture by each of the obscure artists mentioned in 
Old Pictures in Florence. 

INIrs. Browning sometimes expressed regret that Browning 
should give himself so unreservedly in so many directions, 
because she felt that he had thus too little time and energy left 
for poetry. Her fear was not without justification, for 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 25 

after the richly productive period from 1841 to 1846, we 
come upon a space of nine years the only publications of 
which are, in 1850, Christmas Eve and Easier Day, a long 
poem in two parts giving the arguments in favor of Chris- 
tianity; and, in 1852, an introduction to a collection of letters 
then supposed to be by Shelley, but since found to be 
spurious. The essay is nevertheless of importance as an 
exposition of Browning's theory of poetry, and as an interest- 
ing study of Shelley. 

In 1855, at the close of this period of nine years, there 
appeared a collection of fifty-one poems entitled Men and 
Women. In "fundamental brain power," insight, beauty, 
and mastery of style, these poems show Browning at the 
highest level of his poetic achievement. It is in these remark- 
able poems thift he brought to perfectioo a poetic form which 
he practically invented, the dramatic monologue, a form 
in which there is but one speaker but which is es- 
sentially dramatic in effect. The dramatic quality 
arises partly from the implied presence of listeners whose 
expressions of assent or dissent determine the progress or the 
abrupt changes of direction of the speaker's words. In 
Andrea del Sarto, for example, Lucrezia's smiles and frowns 
and gestures of impatience are a constant influence, and the 
poem presents as vivid an interplay of personalities as any 
scene in a drama. But the implied listener is hardly more 
than a secondary dramatic element, the chief one being that 
the speaker talks, as do the characters in a play, out of the 
demands of the immediate experience, gradually and casu- 
ally disclosing all the tangled web of influence, all the 
clashes of will with destiny, of desire with convention, that 
have led to the crisis depicted. Fra Lippo Lippi gives no 



26 INTRODUCTION 

consecutive history of his Ufe, only such snatches of it as 
partially account for his present mad freak, but the strife 
between his own nature and instinct on the one hand and the 
conventions and traditions of religious art on the other could 
hardly be more vividly presented. In a Balcony, the one 
drama in Men and Women, has but a fragment of a plot, but in 
intensity, reality, and passion it excels most of Browning's 
dramas, and, in spite of its long speeches, has proved effec- 
tive on the stage.^ In variety of theme, subject-matter, and 
verse-form, the poems of Men and Women defy classification. 
Whatever page one turns there is something novel, stimulating, 
captivating. All of Browning's Florentine interests are 
represented here, his love of old pictures and little known 
music, his delight in Florence, Venice, Rome, in all Italy, her 
skies and her landscapes, the vagrants of her streets, her 
religious ceremonies, her church dignitaries, her scholars. 
Then there are love-poems in all tones and tempers, the 
noblest of them all, One Word More, being Browning's most 
direct and personal tribute to his wife. And we see in its 
keenest form his intellectual delight in subtle disquisition. 
The doctrine of immortality as it appeals to the mind of the 
cultured, dissatisfied pagan Cleon; the miracle of Lazarus as 
it is brooded over by the Arab physician Karshish; the bal- 
ancing of faith and doubt in the clever casuistry of Bishop 
Blougram — these are topics to Browning's taste and are 
treated with skill and mastery. Taken all in all these poems 
give to the reader a full impression of Browning's charac- 
teristic force, the darting, penetrating power of his phrase, the 

*A particularly interesting dramatic event was Mrs. Lemoyne's presen- 
tation of In a Balcony at Wallack's Theatre, New York, in the autumn of 
1900. Mrs. Lemoyne was tlie Queen, Otis Skinner was Norbert, and 
Eleanor Robsou was Constance. See The Bookman. 12: 387. 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 27 

rush and energy and leap of his thought. It is by Men 
and Women, the somewhat similar Dramatis Perso7iae, and 
the earlier Dramatic Lyrics and Dramatic Romances, that 
Browning is most widely and most favorably known. 

During the first ten years that the Brownings were in 
Florence Mrs. Browning^s health was so good that she was 
able to enjoy social and out-door pleasures to a degree that 
would have been thought impossible before her marriage. 
She had also kept up her literary work. A new edition of her 
poems appeared in 1849; in 1851 she published Casa Guidi 
Wi7idoivs, poems illustrative of her ardent interest in all that 
pertained to the fight for Italian freedom ; and in 1856 her long 
planned verse novel Aurora Leigh was completed and pub- 
lished. But soon after this her strength began insensibly to 
fail and during the last three years of her life she suft'ered 
much from repeated bronchial attacks. However, her death, 
in June, 1861, was entirely unexpected. The Florentines had 
loved her deeply and had appreciated her utterances in behalf 
of a free Italy. She was, accordingly, buried in Florence with 
"extraordinary demonstrations of respect,'* and the house 
where she had lived was marked by the municipality with a 
commemorative tablet. 

Browning's wish was to leave Florence at once and to mak^ 
the new life as unlike the old as possible. He went to London, 
and after some delay established himself in a house at War- 
wick Crescent, where he lived till 1887. The first portion of 
his life in England was one of "unbearable loneliness." He 
took care of his son, busied himself with a new edition of his 
wife's poem&, read and studied and wrote with feverish in- 
tensity, and avoided people. But with the spring of 1863, 
says Mr. Gosse, "a great change came over Browning's 



28 INTRODITTTON 

habits. He had shunned all invitations into society, but 
it suddenly occurred to him that this mode of life 
was mDrbid and unvrorthy," and thereupon he entered into 
the social, literary, musical, and artistic life of London. 

The nine years following 1S55 were again a period of small 
productivity. Dramatis Pcrsonae was a slender volume to 
represent so many years, even though it contained such great 
poems as Rabbi Ben Ezra, A Death in the Desert, and Abt 
Vogler. But during this period a long poem, The Ring and 
the Book, had been maturing. In 1860, while still at Casa 
Guidi, Browning had found at a book-stall the now famous 
"square old yellow Book," containing the legal record of a 
famous Roman murder case. He read the account on the 
way home and before night had so mastered the details that, 
as he paced up and down on the terrace in the darkness, he 
saw the tragedy unfold before him in picture after picture. It 
was not, however, till 1864 that he definitely set to work on the 
composition of the poem. It was published in four volumes 
of three parts each, in the winter and spring of 1868-9. The 
poem has a novel structure. The story is retold ten times 
by different persons and with such variations of fact and 
opinions and style as are dictated by the knowledge and the 
character of the speaker. The monologues of Count Guido 
who murdered his wife, of Pompilia the young wife, of 
Caponsacchi the "soldier saint" who endeavored to save her, 
and of the old Pope, are by far the most interesting por- 
tions of the poem, but the whole of it is remarkable, and it 
justly takes rank as one of England's greatest poems. With 
the appearance of this book Browning's genius received ade- 
quate recognition in high places. The Athenaeum called it 
"the opus magnum of the generation, not merely beyond all 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 29 

parallel the siipremest poetic achievement of the time but the 
most precious and profound spiritual treasure that England 
has possessed since the days of Shakespere." 

The last ten or twelve years of Browning's life were so 
crowded with interests, occupations, publications, friends, 
honors, that not even a summary of them can be undertaken 
here. Mr. Sharp says of this period: 

" Everybody wished him to come and dine; and he did his 
best to gratify Everybody. He saw everything; read all the 
notable books ; kept himself acquainted with the leading con- 
tents of the journals and magazines; conducted a large 
correspondence; read new French, German, and Italian 
books of mark; read and translated Euripides and iEschylus; 
knew all the gossip of the literary clubs, the salons, and the 
studios; was a frequenter of afternoon tea parties; and then, 
over and above it, he was Browning: the most profoundly 
subtle mind that has exercised itself in poetry since Shakes- 
pere." 

Mr. Henry James in commenting on Browning's rich 
and ample London period with "its felicities and prosperities 
of every sort," says that in contemplating "the wonderful 
Browning . . . the accomplished, saturated, sane, sound 
man of the London world and the world of culture," it was 
impossible not to believe that "he had arrived somehow, for 
his own deep purposes, at the enjoyment of a double identity," 
so dissociated were the poet and the "member of society." 
Phillips Brooks, who met Browning in England in 1865-G, 
was impressed by his fulness of life and said he was "very like 
some of the best of Thackeray's London men." In public 
and on ordinary social occasions Browning is said to have 
been frank, charming, friendly — "more agreeable," Mary 



30 INTRODUCTION 

Anderson said, "than distinguished." With intimate friends, 
however, the poet had quite another sort of charm. "To a 
single Hstener," says Mr. Gosse, with whom he was on 
famihar terms, "the Browning of his own study was to the 
Browning of a dinner party as a tiger cat is to a domestic cat. 
In such conversation his natural strength came out. His talk 
assumed the volume and the tumult of a cascade. His voice 
rose to a shout, sank to a whisper, ran up and down the 
gamut of conversational melody. Those whom he was ex- 
pecting will never forget his welcome, the loud trumpet- note 
from the other end of the passage, the talk already in full 
flood at a distance of twenty feet. Then, in his own study or 
drawing-room, what he loved was to capture his visitor in a 
low arm-chair's * sofa-lap of leather,' and from a most unfair 
vantage of height to tyrannize, to walk around the victim, in 
front, behind, on this side, on that, weaving magic circles, 
now with gesticulating arms thrown high, now groveling on 
the floor to find some reference in a folio, talking all the while, 
a redundant turmoil of thoughts, fancies, and reminiscences, 
flowing from those generous lips." 

Elsewhere Mr Gosse summed up his personal impressions 
of Mr. Browning, as f ollow^s : 

"I am bound to tell you that i saw a different Browning 
from the hero of all the handbooks and 'gospels' which are 
now in vogue. People are begining to treat this vehement and 
honest poet as if he were a sort of Marcus Aurelius and John 
the Baptist rolled into one. I have just seen a book in which 
it is proposed that Browning should supersede the Bible, in 
which it is asserted that a set of his volumes will teach religion 
better than all the theologies in the world. Well, I did not 
know that holy monster. . . . What I saw was an unos- 



THE LIFE OF BROWNING 31 

tentatious, keen, active man of the world, one who never failed 
to give good practical advice in matters of business and con- 
duct, one who loved his friends and certainly hated his 
enemies ; a man alive in every eager passionate nerve of him ; 
a man who loved to discuss people and affairs, and a bit of a 
gossip ; a bit of a partizan, too, and not without his humorous 
prejudices. He w^as simple to a high degree, simple in his 
scrupulous dress, his loud, happy voice, his insatiable curi- 
osity." 

Browning's London life was varied by many summer 
journeyings to French sea-coast towns, to Wales, and to 
Scotland. But it was seventeen years after the death of his 
wife before he could bring himself to revisit Italy. Even then 
he avoided Florence. He took his sister to Northern Italy, 
and Asolo and Venice became the towns around which their 
affections centered. Two American friends, Mrs. Bloomfield- ^ 
Moore, and INIrs. Arthur Bronson,^ contributed to the hap- 
piness of these Italian sojourns. In 18S8 Browning's son, 
who had married an American girl, bought the Palazzo 
Rezzonico in Venice, so that Browning had an additional 
personal reason for his trip to Venice in 1889. He was well, 
and he took great pleasure in his son's admirably planned 
restoration of the old Venetian palace. He worked, walked, 
talked with nearly normal vigor. But a bronchial attack 
proved more than his weakened heart could withstand, and 
he died peacefully, almost painlessly, in his son's home on 
December 12, 1889. On the day of his death his last book, 
Asolando, was published, so that his brave-hearted Epilogue 
was really his valediction to this and his heroic greeting to 



i:Mrs. Bronson has given a vivid picture of the Brownings at Asolo and 
at Venice in the Century Magazine for 1900 and 1902. 



32 INTRODUCTION 

another world. He could "greet the unseen witii a cheer," 
because in thought and act he was 

"One who never turned his back but marched 
breast forward, 
Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong 

would triumph, 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, 
Sleep to wake." 

Browning was buried in Westminster Abbey on the last day 
of the year. The most pathetic element of the imposing 
ceremonies was the singing of Mrs. Browning's poem, He 
giveth his beloved sleep. 

THE POETRY OF BROWNING 

Before entering upon a discussion of Browning's poetry 
it will be of interest to note briefly some of the more striking 
general characteristics of the English literature contemporary 
with his work. From Pauline to Asolando is over half a 
century, but as a central and especially significant portion of 
Browning's career we may take the three decades from 1841, 
when he began the Bells and Pomegranates series, to 1869, 
when The Ring and the Book appeared, for these years include 
all of his dramas and most of the poetry on which his fame 
rests. X survey of this period at once reveals the predomi- 
nance of fiction. Within these years come nearly all the novels 
of Charles Dickens, of William Makepeace Thackeray, of 
Charlotte Bronte, of Wilkie Collins, of Charles Kingsley, of 
Mrs, Gaskell, of Anthony Trollope, of George Macdonald, of 
Charles Reade, much of the work of Bulwer Lytton, all the 
novels of George Eliot except Middlemarch and Daniel De- 



TUK P()i:try of browning 3a 

ronda, and the earliest of (jeorge Meredith's books. This 
is a notable showing. No previous pei'iod in EngHsh Htera- 
ture had presented anything Hke so wide a range in fiction 
or had brought forward so large a number of novels of the 
first rank. These years were equally rich in essays, including 
much of Carlyle's w^ork, all of Macaulay's except the early 
Essay on Milton, the religious polemics of Frederick Dennison 
Maurice and John Henry Newman, nearly all of Ruskin's dis- 
cussions of art and social history, most of Leigh Hunt's literary 
criticism, and Matthew Arnold's important early critical essays. 
This, too, is a notable showing. But if we turn to the two realms 
in which Browning excelled, poetry and drama, we find differ- 
ent conditions. During the central period of his career, there 
was, aside from his own work, not a single important drama 
])ublished. The theatres were prosperous, but they brought 
out only old plays or new ones of inferior rank. In poetry, 
too, if we set aside the great names of Tennyson and Brown- 
ing, the period was neither rich nor varied. During Brown- 
ing's first great productive period, 1841-46, the only other 
poems of note were Tennyson's two volumes in 1842. In 
the nine years from 1846 to Men and Women in 1855, the 
chief poems were Tennyson's The Princess, In Memoriam, 
and Maud, for though Wordsworth's Prelude was one of the 
greatest publications of the mid-century, it was written years 
before, and can hardly be counted as belonging to this era. 
There are, during the decade, many poems of secondary rank, 
the most important of them being Mrs. Browning's Sonnets 
from, the Portuguese and Aurora Leigh, but besides Tennyson 
and Browning, the only poet of high rank is Matthew Arnold, 
whose slender volumes voice the doubts and difficulties of the 
age as Browning's poems voice its optimism- In the fourteen 



34 INTRODUCTION 

years between Men and Women and The Ring and the Book 
poets of a new kind appear; William Morris's Defence of 
Guinevere, The Life and Death of Jason and The Earthly 
Paradise, and Swinburne's early poems, are alien to the work 
of Browning in form, subject-matter, and ideals. The fact 
is, the more definitely we try to place Browning in his literary 
environment the more distinctly do we perceive that he was 
sui generis among his contemporaries. He combined in strik- 
ing fashion the intensity of the poet and the strong social 
sense of the prose writer. 

It seems also wise to glance at the outset at a few of the 
main criticisms that have been made on Browning's poetry, 
for the result of his marked originality is that no nineteenth 
century poet has been so greatly praised and blamed. 

A natural first topic is his really famous ''obscurity." This 
obscurity is variously ascribed to a diction unduly learned, o^ 
almost unintelligibly colloquial, or grotesquely inventive; 
to figures of speech drawn from sources too unfamiliar or elab- 
orated to the point of confusion; to sentences complicated 
by startling inversions, by double parentheses, by broken 
constructions, or by a grammatical structure defying analysis. 
It would be quite possible to illustrate each of these points 
from Browning's works, and it cannot be denied that his 
poetry is sometimes needlessly and inexcusably hard reading. 
But in reality the diflSculties in his poems come less from 
stylistic defects than from the subject matter. What Mr. 
Chesterton calls Browning's love for ''the holes and corners 
of history," leads him to the use of much unfamiliar detail. 
A large part of the difficulty in reading Sordello arises from the 
fact that all Browning's accumulated knowledge of mediaeval 
l^.dly is there poured forth in an allusive, taken-for-granted 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 35 

manner, till even the practiced reader turns away perplexed 
and overwhelmed. So, too, Old Pictures in Florence, Pictor 
Ignotiis, and Fra Lippo Lippi assume on the part of the reader 
a minute familiarity with early Florentine art. Occasionally 
the poems demand an exceptional technical knowledge of 
some sort, as in Abt Vogler, whei*e only a trained musician can 
fully understand the terminology. Many even of the minor 
poems belong to realms of thought and experience so remote 
that only by distinct effort do we transport ourselves thither. 
It would, for instance, be absurd to call Tivo in the Campagna 
difficult in form or phrasing, yet it narrates an experience 
intelligible only to those who have loved deeply but have found 
in the very heart of that love a baffling sense of inevitable 
personal isolation. Sometimes the difficulty arises from the 
extreme subtlety of the thought. Evelyn Hope, the simplest 
of poems in expression, presents novel and elusive ideas. 
]Mr. Chesterton ingeniously ascribes Browning's obscurity 
to "intellectual humility,'' to an assumption that his 
readers were in possession of a native endowment and an 
acquired intellectual wealth on a par with his own; but the 
defence seems rather forced. Mrs. Browning gave one of the 
best brief analyses of Mr. Browning's obscurity. He had 
been attacked as being "misty" and she wrote to him, 
''You never are misty, not even in 'Sordello' — never vague. 
Your graver cuts deep sharp lines, always, — and there is an 
extra distinctness in your images and thoughts, from the 
midst of which, crossing each other infinitely, the general 
significance seems to escape." But the classic defence of 
Browning from this point of view may be found in Swinburne's 
Introduction to Chapman's Poems' 



3G INTRODUCTION 

■'The difficulty found by many in certain of Mr. Browning's 
works arises from a quality the very reverse of that which 
produces obscurity, properly so called. Obscurity is the 
natural product of turbid forces and confused ideas; of a 
feeble and clouded or of a vigorous but unfixed and chaotic 
intellect. . . . Now if there is any great quality more 
perceptible than another in Mr. Browning's intellect it is his 
decisive and incisive faculty of thought, his sureness and in- 
tensity of perception, his rapid and trenchant resolution of 
aim. . . . The very essence of Mr. Browning's aim 
and method, as exhibited in the ripest fruits of his intelligence, 
is such as implies abo\e all other things the possession of a 
quality the very opposite of obscurity — a faculty of spiritual 
illumination rapid and intense and subtle as lightning, which 
brings to bear upon its object by way of direct and vivid illus- 
tration every symbol and every detail on which its light is 
flashed in passing." Browning has himself a word to say on 
this topic. He wrote to a fricMid: 

"I can have little doubt that my writing has been in the 
main too hard for many I should have been pleased to com- 
municate with; but I never designedly tried to puzzle people 
as some of my critics have supposed. On the other hand, I 
never pretended to offer such literature as should be a sub- 
stitute for a cigar or a game at dominoes to an idle man. So, 
perhaps, on the whole, I get my deserts, and something over 
— not a crowd but a few I value more." 

A second charge not infrequently brought against Brown- 
ing's verse is that it is harsh, and at times even ugly. This 
charge, like that of obscurity, cannot be wholly denied. The 
harshness results from incorrect rhymes, from irregular 
movement of the verse, or from difficult combinations of 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 37 

vowels and consonants. No reader of Browning s poems 
can fail to have been impressed by his intellectual 
agility in matching odd rhymes. In dash and originality 
his rhymes out-rank even those in Butler's Hudibras and 
Lowell's Fable for Critics. We find in PacchiaroHo, for 
instance, many rhymes of the gayest, most freakish, most 
grotesque character; "monkey, one key," ''prelude, hell- 
hued," ''stubborn cub-born," ''was hard, hazard," all occur 
in a single stanza. An example of exceptional facility 
in rhyming is found in Through the Metidja where, 
without repetition of words and without forcing of the 
sense thirty-six words rhyme with "ride." It cannot be 
denied that this remarkable facility led Browning occasion- 
ally into the use of odd rhymes in poems where no 
light or comic effect was intended; but a detailed study of his 
rhymes^ shows that the proportion of incorrect rhymes is 
really small, that the grotesque rhymes are more striking than 
numerous, and that they are usually in places where they are 
dramatically appropriate. His use of harsh words and sound- 
blcndings is also often to be justified on the ground of their 
appropriateness to the idea. Compare, for instance, the 
flowing, easy words, the musical linking of sounds, in the 
first stanza of Love Among the Ruins with the harsh words, 
harshly combined, in the twelfth and thirteenth stanzas of 
Childe Roland. Both effects are artistic because each sort 
of combination is in response to the nature of the thought. 
It is true that sometimes, perhaps not infrequently, the verse is 
rugged or uncouth where the sense does not call for such 
form, and there are lines that not only remind us of De 
Quincey's dictum that certain words should be "boiled before 

>See xMiss E. M. Clark in Poet-Lore, Vol. II.. p. 480. (1890) 



38 INTRODUCTION 

they are eaten," but which have no metrical flow at all; thev 
defy any sort of scansion and read like rough prose. But 
a poet has a right of appeal to the sum of his manifest ex- 
cellencies rather than to his defects, and if we take Browning's 
best work we find a harmony of movement superior in musical 
effect to a more technically regular metre. In many poems 
the metre is indissolubly fused with the pictures, the ideas 
the events. Take, for instance. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, 
where the hurry-skurry of the verse is in complete harmony 
with the quaint, rapid tale. The hoof-beats of galloping 
horses is heard all through //ok' They Brought tlie Good Xeics 
from Ghent to Aix. The slow march, the stately chant, are 
rhythmically present throughout A Grammarian's Funeral. 
In 2'Jie Flight of the Duchess the change from the rough 
servitor's narrative to the incantation of the gypsy-queen is 
as exquisitely marked in the metrical movement and in the 
rhymes as it is in the diction and tone of thought. Many 
other examples might be cited. Mr. Brinton, who has made 
a detailed and competent study of Browning's verse, gives 
his final opinion in these words : ** In the volumes of Browning 
I maintain that we find so many instances of profound in- 
sight into verbal harmonies, such singular strength of poetic 
grouping, and such a marvelous grasp of the rhythmic prop- 
erties of the English language, that we must assign to him 
a rank second to no English poet of this century." ^ 

A third charge brought against Browning's art is that he 
makes all his characters talk ''Browningese;" that is, that 
he endows all of them with the power to use such words and 
sentences and thought processes as are natural to him and to 
him only. Mr. Stedman in emphasizing this characteristic of 

^Poet-Lore, Vol. II., p. 246. (1890) 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 39 

the poet says of Pippa Passes: **The usual fault is present: 
the characters, whether students, peasants, or soldiers, all 
talk like sages ; Pippa reasons like a Paracelsus in pantalettes." 
It is, of course, obvious at the first glance that there is a lack of 
verisimilitude in Pippa's rich and beautiful soliloquies. Cer- 
tainly no fourteen-year-old mill girl could so describe a sun- 
rise, or play so brilliantly with a sun-beam in a water-basin, 
or outline so cleverly the stories of the happiest four in Asolo. 
The same is true of Phene's long speech to Jules; no un- 
tutored girl brought up in degradation, could present such 
thoughts in such words. When we analyze Browning's way of 
presenting a character, however, we find that the lack of 
verisimilitude is usually external and has to do chiefly with ex- 
pression. Browning works on the fundamental assumption 
that he has a poetic right to make all sorts of people articulate. 
He lends his mind out in the service of their thoughts and 
feelings. He makes people reveal themselves by putting into 
w^ords their elusive, dim, tangled, and even unrecognized 
motives and hopes and joys and despairs. He sums up in 
the speeches all the potentialities of the situation. All the 
significance latent in the type of character and environment, 
is somehow heightened and symbolized. All this is put 
in his own highly individual diction. Yet it can hardly be 
said that he violates poetic realism in the deeper sense, for 
he never puts a halo around a situation , never goes counter to 
its potentialities. Instead he strikes fire from it. He shows 
what is actually in the situation, but at w^hite heat and laid 
bare to its centre. When this method has once been recog- 
nized, discomfort on the score of lack of verisimilitude prac- 
tically disappears, and the reader yields himself to the joy 
of the rich, subtle, and stimulating analysis. 



40 INTRODUCTION 

We may now turn to a consideration of the sub ject-matt er 
and the main ideas of Browning's poetry." From whatever 
point of view we regard his work, we find that ultimately the 
emphasis rests on the same great central fact, the supremacy of 
his interest in human nature. This dominating interest is 
shown, for instance, by a study of his treatment of physical 
nature. To be sure, no one can read his poems without 
recognizing the truth that his use of natural facts is distinctive 
in kind and very stimulating. A mere reference to the pic- 
tures of the sky in Pippa Passes, the vivid descriptions of 
fruits and flowers in An Englishman in Italy, the remark- 
able studies of small animal life in Saul and Caliban upon 
Setebos, of birds in Oh to be in England, of insects in the first 
part of Paracelsus and in many later poems, suffices to 
show that in mature life he did not lose the keenness of 
observation and interest characteristic of his youth. Yet 
it is also evident that his use of nature by way of direct 
description, or even as illustrative material, is far less in 
amount than that of other notable nineteenth century poets. 
He cares much less for "the river's line, the mountains round 
it and the sky above" than for the "figures of man, woman, 
and child these are frame to." Where nature is drawn upon, 
it is almost invariably in complete subordination to some 
human interest, and its literary form is almost always that of 
casual mention, background, or similitude, and the first of 
these is the most frequent. Furthermore, nearly all these 
passages are a mere statement of observed fact without com- 
ment or interpretation. There is one great passage in Para- 
celsus where the joy of God in the act of creation is depicted; 
there are occasional references to the delight of man in the 
external world; and now and then, as in By the Fireside, man 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 41 

and nature are intimately fused ; but such conceptions rarely 
occur. In Browning's poetry the boundary lines between man 
and nature are clearly marked. In Paracelsus he definitely 
protests against man's way of reading his own moods into 
nature, and of attributing to her his own qualities and emo- 
tions. He also always accounts man, if he has truly 
entered into his spiritual heritage, as consciously su- 
perior to nature. The troubadour Eglamour, in Sor- 
dello, says that man shrinks to naught if matched with 
a quiet sea or sky, but Browning calls that Eglamour's "false 
thought." To Browning, nature was to be studied, enjoyed, 
and used, but it was not as to Keats a realm of enchantment; 
or as to Wordsworth the realm where alone the divine and the 
human could pass the boundaries of sense and meet ; or as to 
Matthew iVrnold, a refuge from pain and disillusionment. 
Browning regards the world about him more in the sane, 
unsentimental, straight-forward, intelligible way of Chaucer 
or of Shakspere. The mystical elements in Wordsworth's 
feeling for nature were foreign to Browning's mind. An 
instructive comparison might be made between Wordsworth's 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality and Browning's Prologue 
to Asolando. The poems have the' same starting point. 
Each one attributes sadness to the poet's old age, and each 
gives as a cause of the sadness the inevitable fading of the 
glory with which all nature was invested to the eye of his 
youth. But here the resemblance ends. Wordsworth be- 
lieves that the youthful vision was a divine revelation to be 
regained when the round of existence should be completed 
by a return to his immortal home, and on the memory of that 
vision he founded his faith in a future life. But Browning 
welcomed the loss of the vision. Objects had been to him 



42 INTRODUCTION 

''palpably fire-clothed;" but with the loss of "flame" there 
was a gain in reality. The vision had enthralled and subju- 
gated him; but with the sight of "a naked world" he had be- 
come conscious of things as they are, and he rejoiced in a 
justness of perception that declared what were to him the two 
great facts of life, the power and beauty of God, and the 
glory of the human soul. On these, not on nature, he put 
his stress. 

Browning's paramount interest in humanji ature is further 
illustrated by his poems on the various arts. Of music, 
painting, and sculpture he has written with the intimate and 
minute knowledge of a specialist in each art. He is familiar 
with implements and materials, with the tricks of the trade, 
the talk of the studios; but, after all, the art as an art is of 
much less interest to him than is the worker. The process and 
even the completed product are in Browning's view important 
only in so far as they reveal or affect the artist, the musician, 
the sculptor, or some phase of life. In such poems as Abt 
Vogler, Fra Lippo Lippi, Andrea del Sarto, we are conscious 
not so much of music and pictures as of the secret springs of 
failure, the divine despairs and discontents, the aspirations, 
the creative ecstasies, of the men who wrought in these realms. 
A^ndrea del Sarto's art is not the real theme of the poem bear- 
ing his name. It is, rather, his character, of which his art is an 
expression. The central fact of the poem is the recog- 
nition that a soul morally impoverished cannot, even with 
well-nigh perfect technique, produce great work, while, 
even with faulty technique, a setting of the soul to grand 
issues will secure transcendent meanings. So, too, with Abt 
Vogler. His music is not of the greatest, but our concern is 
with the musician who, through the completeness of his 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 43 

spiritual absorption in music, is conducted into a realm of ex- 
perience beyond that of speech or even of articulate thought- 
Another distinctly human aspect of art interests Browning, 
and that is its power to represent and so to recall a vanished 
civilization. Greek statues, the devotional pictures of the 
early Florentines, the work of the later Italian realists, stand, 
in Old Pictures in Florence, as representatives of the life and 
thought that produced them. In A Toccata of Galuppi's the 
music revivifies the superficial gaiety, the undertone of fear, 
in the life of eighteenth century Venice. Highly significant 
in this connection are the poems in which he traces the evolu- 
tion of art. Running through Old Pictures in Florence and 
Fra Lippo Lippi we find an ordered statement of the chief 
changes in the ideals of art as Browning saw them. The 
Greeks, we are told, had produced in sculpture the most 
beautiful representations of the human body. But if their 
successors had been content merely to admire this per- 
fect achievement, they would have purchased satisfaction 
at the price of their own arrested development. Prog- 
ress came only when, in the dawn of Italian art, men turned 
from Greek perfection, from the supremely beautiful bm 
limited representations of the human body, to an attempt to 
paint the invisible, the spiritual side of man's nature. The 
work of these artists was great because it was not imitative 
and because it stretched toward an unending and ideal 
future. But the idealistic and aspiring temper of early 
Tuscan art had the defects of its qualities. Its spiritual 
ecstasy once conventionalized and reduced to a formula led 
to unreality, and, if not to untruth, at least to an unwholesome 
ignoring of a part of truth. There was, therefore, an in- 
evitable reaction to the naturalism described with such verve 



44 INTRODUCTION 

and gusto by Fra Lippo Lippi. But this is, after all, social 
history in terms of art, and to Browning what has happened 
in painting is of value chiefly as showing concretely what 
has happened in the mind of man. 

From the instances already cited it is apparent that Brown- 
ing's interest centered, not in abstract or theoretical dis- 
cussions of human problems, but in the individuals who face 
the problems. In this point Browning is sharply distin- 
guished from his poetic contemporaries as a class. They 
felt deeply "all the weary weight of this unintelligible world," 
so deeply that while they gave much thought to ideals of 
social amelioration, few of them presented individuals with 
any dramatic distinctness. Browning stands practically by 
himself in the nineteenth century as the poet who gives us 
both the "doubter and the doubt," who is able to join with 
an impressive statement of the hopes and fears of man, an 
equally impressive sequence of individual men and women. 
In this he harks back to the broad inclusiveness of the 
Elizabethan dramatists. In contemporary literature, his 
nearest congeners are in fiction, not in poetry. 

The great number and variety of Browning's characters 
can be illustrated in different ways. We might, for instance, 
note how many nationalitie^ »are represented. The person- 
ages in Sirafford and the Cavalier Tunes are Englishmen from 
the time of the Civil War. Clive is a true story of the Indian 
Empire. We have from Italian life the numerous characters 
in Sordello, Fra Lippo Lippi, Picior Ignotus, The Bishop 
Orders his Tomb at St. Praxed's Church, My Last 
Duchess, The Ring and the Book, A Grammarian's Funeral, 
Up at a Villa — Down in the City, In a Gondola, and many 
more. Count Gismond and Herve Kiel are French stories 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 45 

Paracelsus and Abt Voglcr are of German origin. Bol- 
austions Adventure, Aristophanes' Apologj/, Pheidippides , 
and Echetlos celebrate Greek thought and adventure. Verv 
important poems such as Saul and Rabbi Ben Ezra, have to 
do with Jewish Hfe. And unhke Shakspere, who is not 
concerned with making JuHus Caesar a Roman or Duke 
Theseus a Greek, Browning brings to the creation of 
each of these widely divergent characters, a detailed knowl- 
edge of the special habits of life and thought of the 
nation or race concerned. He represents also many kinds 
of I jLuman interest^ We find in his poems seekers after 
knowledge such as Paracelsus, who takes all thought and 
fact as his domain; or such as the Grammarian, who 
found Greek particles too wide a realm; or such as the 
pedant Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis, whose learned rubbish 
cumbers the land. There are likewise those who grope after 
the truths of religion from Caliban on his island to the learned 
physician Karshish and the highly cultured Cleon; those who 
have the full vision from elohn to Rabbi Ben Erza; those who 
juggle with terms and creeds as does Bishop Blougram; and 
out and out frauds like Sludge the INIedium. The church is 
represented by many men dissimilar in endowments, tastes, 
spiritual experiences, and aims. There are Italian prelates 
of every sort, from the worldly-minded Bishop of St. Praxed's, 
occupied in death with vain thoughts of lapis-lazuli and pure 
Latin, to the "soldier-saint," Caponsacchi, who saved 
Pompilia, and the wise old Pope who pronounced Guido's 
doom ; from the unw^orthy priest in the Spanish Cloister to the 
very human, kindly Pope in The Bean Feast. And from all 
these it is far down the ages to the evangelical parish priest of 
The Inn Album, that "purblind honest drudge," who, the 



46 INTRODUCTION 

deeper to impress his flock, painted heaven dimly but "made 
hell distinct." There are many artists, many musicians. 
There are poets from Aprile in Paracelsus, and the trouba- 
dours Eglamour and Sordello, to Keats and Shelley. The 
extremes of social life are given. There are the street-girls 
in Pippa Passes and there are kings and queens with royal 
retinues. There are statesmen, and warriors, and seekers 
after romantic adventure. There are haughty aristocrats 
of cold and cruel natures, and there are obscure but high- 
hearted doers of heroic deeds. Browning's dictum, "Study 
man, man, whatever the issue," led him into a world 
wider than that known by any other poet of his time and 
akin, as has been pointed out, to that of the great writers 
of fiction. As an observer of human life he was not unlike 
his poor poet of Valladolid who, with his "scrutinizing hat," 
went about the streets, absorbed in watching all kinds of 
people, all sorts of occupations, "scenting the world, looking 
it full in the face." He chose to set forth "the wants and 
ways" of actual life. He summed up his work in the 
Epilogue io Pacchiarotfo: 

"Man's thoughts and loves and hates! 
Earth is my vineyard, these grew there: 
From grape of the ground, I made or marred 
My vintage." 

It is further apparent that Browning's characters are 
never merely types, but must always be reckoned with as 
indivi duals. It was his belief that no two beings were ever 
made similar in head and heart; hence, even where there 
are external similarities the essential elements are strongly 
differentiated. Take, for instance, three poems in which 
Jhe situations are not unlike. In My Last Duchess, 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 47 

The Flight of the Duchess, and The Ring and the Book we 
have a portrayal of three men of high lineage, but cold, 
egotistic, cruel, who have married very young and lovely 
women over whom the custom of the times gives them abso- 
lute power. But there the likeness ends. We cannot for a 
moment class together the polished, aesthetic, well-bred 
aristocrat of the first poem, the absurd little popinjay of the 
second, and the ** tiger-cat *' of the third. Less strongly, but as 
clearly are the wives differentiated. To the innocent gaiety 
of heart, the bright, sweet friendliness of the hapless lady in 
My Last Duchess must be added for the lady in The Flight of 
the Duchess, a native force of character which, when roused 
by the call of the gypsy-queen, enables her to break 
the yoke imposed on her by the Duke and his mother and 
go forth into a life of adventure, freedom, and love. The 
delicate, flower-like Pompilia in The Ring and the Booh has 
also power to initiate and carry through a plan of escape, 
but her incentive is no call to romantic freedom. Her passive 
endurance changes to active revolt only when motive and 
energy are supplied by her love for her child. Or take Pippa 
and Phene in Pippa Passes, two beautiful young girls brought 
up in dangerous and evil surroundings, but both innately 
pure. In character and experience they are, however, as un- 
like as two girls could be. Phene, undeveloped in mind and 
heart, the easily duped agent of a cruel trick, appeals to us by 
her slow, incredulous, but eager response to goodness and 
aspiration, the tremulous opening of her soul to love. But 
Pippa, with her observant love of nature, her gay, sportive, 
winsome fancies, her imaginative sympathy with the lives of 
others, her knowledge of good and evil, her poise, her bright 
steadiness of soul, carries us into a different and much more 



48 INTRODUCTION 

highly evolved world of thought and feeling. So we might 
go through the great assemblage of Browning's characters to 
find that each one stands out by himself as a person with his 
own qualities, possibilities, and problems. 

In all this portrayal of individuals the emphasis is on things 
of the mind and heart. In these realms Browning found 
nothing alien or uninteresting. From point to point his 
poetry illustrates what he said in his comment on Sordello, 
** My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a human 
soul; little else is worth study." In all his poetry environ- 
ment is of importance only in so far as it is the stuff on which 
the soul works. It is "the subtle thing called spirit," it is 
*'the soul's world" to which he devotes himself. 

It is only from a study of Browning's many characters 
that we may arrive at a statement of some of the distinguishing 
features of his philosophy of life. And any such statements 
must be made with extreme caution because of his dramatic 
method. He utters this caution himself when he says of his 
poems, "Their contents are always dramatic in principle, and 
so many utterances of so many imaginary people." Yet it 
is possible, by taking the general trend and scope of his work 
to make justifiable deductions concerning his dominant ideas. 

In Browning's philosophy of life, words of especial signifi- 
cance are ''growth" and ''progress." Domizia in Luria says. 

"How inexhaustibly the spirit grows! 

One object, she seemed erewhile born to reach 

With her whole energies and die content, — 

So Hke a wall at the world's edge is stood, 

With naught beyond to live for, — is that reached? — 

Already are new undreamed energies 

Outgrowing under, and extending farther 

To a new object." 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 49 

So, too, John in A Death in the Desert sums up his behef in 
the hne, 

'T say that man was made to grow, not stop," 

Growth here and growth hereafter are the essential elements 
of Browning's creed. And there is no other poet in whom 
all kinds of thinking and doing are so uniformly tested by 
their outcome in the growth of the soul. Does joy stimulate 
to fuller life; does suffering bring out moral qualities; do ob- 
stacles develop energy; do sharp temptations become a 
source of strength and assured soldiership ; does knowledge of 
evil lead to a new exaltation of good; does sin lead to self- 
knowledge and so to regeneration? Then all these are 
ministers of grace, for through them the soul has reached 
greater heights and fuller life. Whatever bids the soul **nor 
stand nor sit, but go" is to be w^elcomed. The cost of this 
growth may be great, but the advances of spirit are represented 
as worth any sacrifice. The lady in The Flight of the Duchess 
goes from splendor and ease to hardship and obscurity, but 
she wins freedom of thought and of act and the opportunity 
to test the qualities of her soul. In Pip pa Passes Sebald 
might have had love and wealth, Jules might have attained 
fame along the conventional path marked out for him by 
the ]Monsignor, Luigi had the prospect of an easy life and 
happy love, the Monsignor might have had enhanced honor 
from the church into whose coffers he could have turned 
great revenues. But instead each responds in turn to 
Pippa's songs; Sebald gains a true view of sin, Jules gets a 
new conception of service and attainment, Luigi's wavering 
purpose of self-sacrifice for his country's good is strengthen- 
ed, the iNIonsignor is held back from connivance at a crime- 



50 INTRODUCTION 

In all these cases the external loss is as nothing compared 
to the gain in spiritual knowledge and energy. 

Contact with magnetic and superior personalities is a way 
of growth particularly noted by Browning. There are men 
he says, who bring new feeling fresh from God, and whose 
life "reteaches us what life should be, what faith is, loyalty 
and simpleness." Pompilia says of Caponsacchi: 

"Through such souls alone 

God stooping shows sufficient of his light 

For us i' the dark to rise by." 

The highest souls are "seers" in the noblest sense and they 
** impart the gift of seeing to the rest." But the helpful per- 
sonality need not be great in knowledge or rank. In Pippa 
Browning emphasizes the power of unconscious goodness in 
clarifying the spiritual vision of others and in thus stimulating 
to right action. And in David he shows the power of poetic 
charm, innocence, and eager love to drive aw^ay from another 
heart a mood of black despair. 

But outside influences are, after all, says Browning, of 
secondary importance. They can, at best, do no more 
than stimulate and guide. When Andrea del Sarto attrib- 
utes his general lowering of ideals and power to the influence 
of Lucrezia, he evades the real issue. Incentives must 
come from the soul's self. Growth is dependent on personal 
struggle. Man is, by his very nature, 

"forced. to try and make, else fail to grow, — 
Formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain 
The good beyond him — which attempt is growth." 

So, also, is it better that youth 

"should strive, through acts uncouth, 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made. ' 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 51 

It is in the independence and originality of such striving that 
the soul discovers and frees its innate potentialities. 

An inevitable corollary of this idea of progress is the em- 
phasis put upon aspiration as a habit of the mind. The 
pursuit of an ideal, a divine discontent with present accom- 
plishment, are enjoined upon man. The gleams of heaven 
on earth are not meant to be permanent or satisfying, but only 
to sting man into hunger for full light. When a human being 
has achieved to the full extent of his perceptions or aspira- 
tions, he has, thinks Browning, met with the greatest possible 
disaster, that of arrested development. Man's powers should 
ever climb new heights. For his soul's health he should 
always see "a flying point of bliss remote, a happiness in store 
afar, a sphere of distant glory." *'A man's reach should ex- 
ceed his grasp or w^hat's a heaven for?" According to this 
ideal, man's conception of good is ever changing and ever 
widening and hence never in this life to be fully attained; 
yet the condition of growth is that he have an unmeasured 
thirst for good and that he pursue it with unquenchable 
ardor. 

The importance of love as one of the most effective agencies 
in spiritual growth is stated and restated in Browning's 
poetry and by exceedingly diverse characters. The Queen 
in In a Balcony turns aw^ay from her lonely splendor to ex- 
claim 

" There is no good of life but love — but love! 

^S^hat else looks good is some shade flung from love; 

Love gilds it, gives it worth.'* 

The Duchess learns from the gypsy 

"How love is the only good in the world." 



52 INTRODUCTION 

The famous singer in Dis Alitcr Visum knows that art, 
verse, music, count as naught beside "love found, gained, and 
kept." Browning seems to regard almost any genuine love as 
a means of opening out the nature to fuller self-knowledge, 
to wider sympathies, and to increased power of action. Hence 
he condemns all cautious calculation of obstacles, all dwelling 
upon conventional difficulties, in the path of those who have 
clearly seen "the love-way." Hence even love unrequited is 
counted of inestimable value. In Colomhes Birthday Valence 
says, 

"Is the knowledge of her, naught? the memory, naught? 

— Lady, should such an one have looked on you, 

Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world 

And say, love can go unrequited here! 

You will have blessed him to his whole life's end — • 

Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back, 

All goodness cherished where you dwelt — and dwell." 

But the love of man and woman is not the only sort. A 
part of the value of this individual relationship is that it may 
be regarded as a revelation and symbol of the spirit of all- 
embracing sympathy whereby mankind should be ruled. 
When Paracelsus analyzes his life he ascribes his failure to 
the fact that he had souo^ht knowledge to the exclusion of all 
else ; he finally came to see that knowledge, how^ever profound , 
is of itself barren, of satisfaction. He had meant to serve 
men by revealing truth to them, but he found that real service 
is based on the understanding given by love. In self con- 
demnation he says, 

"In my own heart love had not been made wise 
To trace love's faint beginnings in mankind, 
To know even hate is but a mask of love's. 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 53 

To see a good in evil, and a hope 

In iil-success; to sympathize, be proud 

Of their half-reasons, faint aspirings, dim 

Struggles for truth, their poorest fallacies. 

Their prejudice and fears and cares and doubts; 

All with a touch of nobleness, despite 

Their error, upward tending all though weak." 

Browning's conception of the function and power of love 
is based on /lis belief in its divine origin. Twice at least, in 
Easter Day and Saul, his characters work out from an over- 
powering recognition of God's omniscience and omnipotence 
to a final recognition that his love is equal in scope with his 
power and knowledge. And he counts human service as most 
complete whv^n , as in David before Saul, it reaches out to God's 
love and recruits its failing forces from the divine source. 

Underlying Browning's doctrine of the value of love, and 
his doctrine of progress and aspiration, is his belief in personal 
immortality. When he was charged with being strongly 
against Darwin, with rejecting the truths of science and 
regretting its advance, he answered that the idea of a pro- 
gressive development from senseless matter until man's 
appearance had been a familiar conception to him from the 
beginning, but he ' reiterated his constant faith in creative 
intelligence acting on matter but not resulting from it. **Soul," 
he said, "is not matter, nor from matter, but above." Two 
assumptions which though not susceptible of proof he regards 
as "inescapable," are the existence of creative intelligence 
and of "the subtle thing called spirit." When he argues out 
the question of the immortality of this spirit, as in La Saisiaz, 
he admits the subjective character of the evidence ; but when he 
speaks spontaneously out of his own feeling or experience, it 
is with positive belief in life after death. To Mr. Sharp he 



54 ' INTRODUCTION 

said, "Death, death! It is this harping on death that I de- 
spise so much ! Why, amico mio, you know as well as I that 
death is life, just as our daily, our momentarily dying body 
is none the less alive and ever recruiting new forces of exist- 
ence. Without death which is our crape-like church-yardy 
word for change, for growth, there could be no prolongation 
of what we call life. Pshaw, it is foolish to argue upon such 
a thing, even. For myself, I deny death as an end of every- 
thing. Never say of me that I am dead!" When his wife 
died he wrote in her Testament these words from Dante, 
"Thus I believe, thus I affirm, thus I am certain it is, that 
from this life I shall pass to another better there where that 
lady lives of whom my soul was enamoured." This faith in 
life after death explains much of Browning's philosophy. 
The source of the pagan Cleon's profound discouragement 
was the fact that man should be dowered with "joy-hunger," 
should be given the ability to perceive and comprehend 
splendor and breadth of experience, but should, through the 
straitness of human limitations, be held back from satisfaction 
and achievement, and should be left to die thus dazzled, thus 
baffled. The secret of Browning's optimism, on the other 
hand, is his belief that in heaven the soul is freed from Umita- 
tions, and blossoms out into capabilities of joy and of activity 
beyond anything suggested by the most golden dreams of 
earth. To him all life is a unit, beginning here and destined 
to unimaginable development hereafter. Earth is regarded 
as a place of tutelage where man may learn to set foot on 
some one path to Heaven. And no work begun here shall 
ever pause for death. Even apparent failure here counts for 
little so the quest be not abandoned. Each of us may, as Abt 



THE POETRY OF BROWNING 55 

Vogler, look without despair on the broken arcs of earth 
if his faith reveals the perfect round in heaven. 

From any prolonged study of Browning's poetry we become 
conscious of certain dominant qualities of style that may be 
thought of quite apart from his themes or message. That his 
style has the defects of its qualities has already been pointed 
out. Here we may appropriately indicate those qualities as 
positive elements of his power. His diction, rich alike in the 
most learned words and the most colloquial, is responsive to 
all demands. His power of phrasing runs the whole gamut 
from simplicity the most pellucid to originality the most 
triumphant. His figures of speech, drawn from all realms, 
are penetrating in quality, of startling aptness. Equally 
characteristic is his versification, varying as it does from 
passages of melodic smoothness and grace to lines as strident, 
broken, and harsh as the thought they dramatically reflect. 
In narration, whether in the brilliant rapidity and ease of a 
short poem like Herve Riel or in the sustained flow of a long 
story like that of Pompilia, we find unusual skill. In disquisi- 
tion, in the presentation of complicated and elusive intellectual 
processes, there is a quite unmatched agility and dexterity. 
Probably no two forms of poetry contain more of Brown- 
ing's most noteworthy work than the lyric, especially the re- 
flective love lyric, and that form which is distinctively his own, 
the dramatic monologue. * In his best poems in this last form 
he has no competitor. It is in the presentation of character 
through the medium of dramatic monologue that he most 
fully reveals the unerring precision of his analysis, his light- 
ning glance into the heart of a mystery, the ease with which he 
tracks a motive or mood or thought to its last hiding place, 
and his consequent passion and fire of sympathy or scorn. 



56 INTRODUCTION 

Finall}^, whether we consider Browning's style or sub- 
ject matter or philosophy of life, we become growingly 
conscious of his force. The "clear Yirgilian line" of 
Tenn3^son is the outcome of a nature instinctively aristo- 
cratic and aloof. Browning is out in the thick of the 
fight and almost vociferously demands a hearing. What- 
ever makes his thought clear, vivid, active, forcible, seems 
to him, however prosaic it may appear at first glance, 
proper poetic material. The immediate effect of his verse 
is the rousing of the mind to great issues. His tre- 
mendous sincerity results in a dispelling of mists, a 
stripping off of husks. His demand for the truth, is a 
trumpet note of challenge to our doubt or fear or indif- 
ference. His penetrating study of human problems leads 
to an inevitable widening of the horizons of comprehen- 
sion and sympathy on the part of his readers. And his 
courage and optimism constitute an inspiration and 
stimulus of an uncommonly virile sort. 

It has been said that Browning is ''not a poet, but a 
literature," and in work so vast and varied that it can 
be thus characterized there must be wide extremes of 
value. It is almost certain that portions of his work 
cannot live. They are too difficult, too unliterar3\ But 
in the portions where great thought finds adequate form, 
the product is a priceless gift and one not equalled by 
any other poet of his age. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

The great number of books and articles on Browning and 
his work is shown by the BibHography of Biography and 
Criticism prepared by John P. Anderson of the British 
INIuseum and printed in WiUiam Sharp's Life of Robert Brown- 
ing. The selection to be given here can hardly more than 
suggest this large amount of material. 

The 1888-9 edition of Browning's Works by Smith, Elder 
and Co. incorporates Browning's last revisions and his own 
punctuation. The Macmillan edition in nine volumes in 
1894 reproduces this text. 

For biographical material important books are 

The Letters of Robert Broicning and Elizabeth Barrett 
1845-1846, two volumes, 1902, Harper Brothers. 

The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Edited with 
Biographical Additions by Frederic G. Kenyon. Macmillan, 
1897. (Two volumes in one, 1899.) 

The Life and Letters of Robert Browning by INIrs A. Suther- 
land Orr in 1891. A new edition, revised and in part re- 
written by Mr. Frederic Q. Kenyon, was brought out by 
Houghton, Mifflin and Company in 1908. Mrs. Orr and 
INIr. Kenyon w^ere both friends of Browning and could speak 
with authority on many details of his life. 

Robert Browning, Personalia, by Edmund Gosse. Hough- 
ton, Mifflin and Company, 1890. This book consists of a 
reprint of two articles, one from The Century Magazine on 
"The Early Career of Robert Browning," and one from The 
New i^evi^if; entitled ''Personal Impressions." These arti- 
cles are of exceptional interest because Mr. Gosse lived 
near Mr. Browning at Warwick Crescent and they were ou 
terms of close friendship. In Critical Kit-Kats, 1896, Mx*. 
Gosse gives the story of Sonnets from the Portuguese. 



58 BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Robert Browning. In Bookman Biographies, edited by 
W. Robertson Nicholl. Hodder and Stoughton, London. 
Many interesting illustrations. 

The Century Magazine for 1900 and 1902 gives Mrs. 
Bronson's account of Browning at Asolo and at Venice. 

For general handbooks see : 

The Browning Cyclopaedia. Edward Berdoe, Macmillan, 
1.902. Elaborate analysis of each poem. Many textual 
notes. Interpretations often involved and far-fetched to 
the point of being untenable. 

Handbook of Robert Browning s Works. Mrs A. Suther- 
land Orr. First edition, 1885; sixth edition, 1891. Re- 
published by Bell and Sons, London, 1902. Explanatory 
analysis of each poem. Edition of 1902 contains complete 
bibliography of Browning's works. Written at the request 
of the London Browning Society. 

For criticism see, as books varying widely in point of view 
and scope, but each of distinct interest: 

An Introduction to the Study of Robert Browning s Poetry. 
Hiram Corson. Boston, 1886. 

A n Introduction to the Study of Browning. Arthur Symons . 
London, Cassell and Company, 1886. 

Life of Robert Browning. William Sharp. Walter Scott 
and Company, London, 1897. 

The Poetry of Robert Broivning. Stopford A. Brooke. 
Crowell and Company, 1902. 

Robert Browning. G. K. Chesterton. Macmillan, 1903. 

Robert Browning. C. H. Herford. Dodd, Mead and 
Company, 1905. 

Interpretations of Poetry and Religion, by Mr. George 
Santayana, Scribners, 1900, contains an interesting presenta- 
tion of Browning's work in a chapter entitled "The Poetry 
of Barbarism." 

Broivning Study Programmes by Charlotte Porter and 
Helen A. Clarke, Croweh and Company, 1900, is a series of 
studies on separate poems or " -7i groups of poems. Often very 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 59 

suggestive and helpful. In Poet-Lore, edited by Miss Clarke 
and INIiss Porter, are, passim, many other valuable studies and 
notes on Browning. The Camberwell edition of Browning's 
poems, edited by Miss Clarke and Miss Porter with excel- 
lent annotations, was published by Crowell and Co. in 1898. 
The London Browning Society's Papers and The Boston 
Browning Society's Papers contain much valuable material' 
on separate poems or on various phases of Browning's life and 
work. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 

May 7, 1812. Robert Browning born in Camberwell, 
London. 

1824. Incondita ready for publication. 

1825. Shelley and Keats read. 

1826. Left Mr. Ready's school. 

1833. Pauline published anonymously. 
1833-4. Travels in Russia and Italy. 
1835. Par arris us. 

1837. Strafford. Acted May 1, 1837. Covent 
Gird en. 

1840. Sordello. 

1841-6. Bells and Pomegranates. 

1841. No. L Pippa Passes. 

1842. No. II. King Victor and King 

Charles. 

1842. No. III. Dramatic Lyrics. 

1843. No. IV. The Return of the Druses. 

1843. No. V. A Blot in the 'Scutcheon. 

Acted Feb. 11, 1843, 
Drury Lane. 

1844. No. VI. Colomhes Birthday. Acted, 

April 25, 1853, Haymar- 
ket. 

1845. No. VII. Dramatic Romances and 
Lyrics. 

No. VIII. Luria and A SouVs Tragedy. 
Correspondence between Mr. Browning 

and Miss Barrett begun. 
Their first meeting. 
Their marriage at Marylebone Church, 

London, 
to April 1847. in Pisa. 
Arrival at Florence. 



Tan. 


10, 


1846: 
1845. 


May 
Sept. 


20, 
12, 


1845. 
1846. 


Oct. 
^pril 


20, 


1846. 
1847. 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 61 

1848. Settled in permanent home at Casa Guidi. 

1849. Poems by Robert Browning. Two vols, 
'h 9, 1849. Birth of Wiedemann (or ^Tenini") 

Browning, 
'h 1849. Death of Browning's mother. 

1850. Christmas Eve and Easter Day. 

1851. Mrs. Browning's Casa Guidi Windows. 

1852. Letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley. With 

an introductory essay by Robert Brown- 
ing. 

1855. Men and Women. In two volumes. 

185G. Mrs. Browning's Aurora Leigh. 

1860. Browning found the *' Yellow Book." 

29, 1861. Mrs. Browning died. She was buried in 
Florence. 

1861. Browning left Florence. 

1862. Established himself at 19 Warwick Cres- 

cent, London, where he lived twenty- 
five years. 

1863. The Poetical Works of Robert Browning. 

In three volumes. Chapman and Hall. 

1863. Selections from the Poetical Works of 

Robert Brow^iing. [Editors, B. W. 
Proctor and John Forster.] 

1864. Dramatis Personae. 

1866. Browning's father died and Sarianna came 

to live with her brother. 
1868. The Poetical Works of Robert Browning. 

In six volumes. Smith, Elder and Co. 
1868-9. The Ring andthe Book. In four volumes. 
1871. Balaustion's Adventure. 

1871. Prince Llohenstiel-Schwangau; Saviour 

of Society. 

1872. Fi/ine at the Fair. 

1873. Red Cotton Night-Cap Country. 
1875. Aristophanes' Apology. 

1875. The Inn Album. 



July 1876. Pacchiarotto and How He Worked in 

Diste7nper. 

1877. The Agamemnon of Mschyhis translated. 

1878. La Salsiaz; The Ttco Poets of Croisic. 
Aug. 1878. Browning first revisited Italy. 

1879. Dramatic Idyls. 

1880. Dramatic Idyls. Second Series. 

1881. The London Browning Society estab- 

lished. 

1883. Jocoseria. 

1884. Ferishtalis Fancies. 

1887. Browning moved to De Vere Gardens. 
1887. Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert 
Browning. Kiverside edition: Hough- 
ton, Mifflin and Co. 
1888-9. The Poetical Works of Robert Browning. 
In sixteen volumes. Smith, Elder and 
Co. [All the works collected by the 
author excei)t Asolando.^ 
Dec. 12, 1889. Asolando. 

Dec. 12, 1889. Robert Browning died in the Palazzo 
Rezzonica, his son's home, in Venice. 
Dec. 31, 1889. Buried in Westminster Abbey. 



SELECTIONS 



THE POEMS AND PLAYS 



ROBERT BROWNING 



SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 



''heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes*' 

Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes 
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, 

Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes 
From out her hair: such balsam falls 
Down sea-side mountain pedestals, ^ 

From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, 

Spent with the vast and howling main. 

To treasure half their island-gain. 

And strew faint sweetness from some old 

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud ^^ 

Which breaks to dust when once unrolled; 
Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 
From closet long to quiet vowed. 
With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
Mouldering her lute and books among, »6 

As when a queen, long dead, was young. 

II 
"over the sea our galleys went" 

Over the sea our galleys went. 
With cleaving prows in order brave 
To a speeding wind and a bounding wave, 

A gallant armament: ^ 

65 



66 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Each bark built out of a forest-tree 

Left leafy and rough as first it grew, 
And nailed all over the gaping sides, 
Within and without, with black bull -hides, 
Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
To bear the playful billows' game: 
So, each good ship was rude to see. 
Rude and bare to the outward view, 

But each upbore a stately tent 
Whfi'e cedar pales in scented row 
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, 
And an awning drooped the mast below. 
In fold on fold of the purple fine. 
That neither noontide nor starshine 
Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, 

Might pierce the regal tenement. 
When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
We set the sail and plied the oar; 
But when the night-wind blew like breath, 
For joy of one day's voyage more. 
We sang together on the wide sea. 
Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; 
Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, 
Each helm made sure by the twilight star. 
And in a sleep as calm as death. 
We, the voyagers from afar, 

Lay stretched along, each weary crew 
In a circle round its wondrous tent 
Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent. 

And wdth light and perfume, music too: 
So the stars w^heeled round, and the darkness past, 



SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 67 

And at morn we started beside the mast, 
And still each ship was sailing fast. 

Now, one morn, land appeared — a speck 
Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky: 
"Avoid it," cried our pilot, ''check 
The shout, restrain the eager eye!" 
But the heaving sea was black behind 
For many a night and many a day. 
And land, though but a rock, drew^ nigh; 
So, we broke the cedar pales away. 
Let the purple awning flap in the wind, 

And a statue bright was on every deck! 
We shouted, every man of us. 
And steered right into the harbour thus. 
With pomp and psean glorious. 

A hundred shapes of lucid stone! 

All day we built its shrine for each, 
A shrine of rock for every one, 
Nor paused till in the westering sun 

We sat together on the beach 
To sing because our task was done. 
When lo! what shouts and merry songs! 
Wliat laughter all the distance stirs! 
A loaded raft with happy throngs 

Of gentle islanders ! 
"Our isles are just at hand," they cried, 

"Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; 
Our temple-gates are opened wide. 
Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping 



68 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

For these majestic forms" — they cried. 
Oh, then Ave awoke with sudden start 
From our deep dream, and knew, too late, 
How^ bare the rock, how desolate, 
^a Which had received our precious freight: 

Yet we called out — *'Depar^;! 

Our gifts once given, must /icre Abide. 
Our work is done; we have no heart 
To mar our work," — we cried. 

Ill 

"thus the mayne glideth" 

% Thus the INIayne glideth 

Where my Love abideth. 
Sleep's no softer: it proceeds 
On through lawns, on through meads, 
On and on, whatever befall, 

9a Meandering and musical. 

Though the niggard pasturage 
Bears not on its shaven ledge 
Aught but weeds and waving grasses 
To view the river as it passes, 

100 Save here and there a scanty patch 

Of primroses too faint to catch 
A weary bee. 

And scarce it pushes 
Its gentle way through strangling rushes 
Where the glossy kingfisher 

Vtt Flutters when noon-heats are nea^* 



CAVALIER TUNES 69 

Glad the shelving banks to shun, 

Red and steaming in the sun, 

Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat 

Burrows, iand the speckled stoat; 

Where the quick sandpipers flit 

In and out the marl and grit 

That seems to breed them, brown as they: 

Naught disturbs its quiet way, 

Save some lazy stork that springs, 

Trailing it with legs and wings. 

Whom the shy fox from the hill 

Rouses, creep he ne'er so still. 



CAVALIER TUNES 
I 

MARCHING ALONG 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: 

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, 

Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles 

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries! 



70 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, 
to Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 
Till you're— 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this sony^ 

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! 
»5 England, good cheer! Rupert is near! 
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong. 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this songf 

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls 
20 To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! 
Hold by the right, you double your might; 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, 
Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! 

II 

GIVE A rouse 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles! 



6 



Who gave me the goods that went since ? 
Who raised me the house that sank once ? 



CAVALIER TUNES Tl 

Who helped me to gold I spent since ? 

Who found me in wine you drank once ? 
Chorus. — 

King Charles, and who'll do him right noicf 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight noicf !«> 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles! 

To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
By the old fool's side that begot him ? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else, is 

While Noll's damned troopers shot him ? 
Chorus. — 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 

Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite noio. 

King Charles! 20 

III 

BOOT AND SADDLE 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, 

Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; s 

Many's the friend there, will listen and pray 
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay— 
Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 



72 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Forty miles of!^ like a roebuck at bay, 
' Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: 
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 
Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'* 

Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, honest and gay, 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, ''Nay I 
I've better counsellors; what counsel they? 

Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'* 



THE LOST LEADER 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 
Lost all the others she lets us devote; 
5 They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 
So much w^as theirs who so little allowed: 
How all our copper had gone for his service! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him, 
10 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their 
graves ! 
15 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 
— He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! 



"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS" 73 

We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, 
One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! 
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! 

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, 

Never glad confident morning again! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly. 

Menace our heart ere we master his own; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! 



"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
FROM GHENT TO AIX" 

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gatebolts undrew; 

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. 



74 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

10 Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit. 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dav»'ned clear; 
15 At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; 
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 
So, Joris broke silence with, **Yet there is time!" 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
20 And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past. 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: 

•25 And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 

30 His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ''Stay spur I 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 
35 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 



"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS" 75 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; 4o 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And ** Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" 



* How they'll greet us!" — and all in a moment his roan 

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 

And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 45 

Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 

And with circles of red for his eve-sockets' rim. 



Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or 

good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is — friends flocking round 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
Ghent. 



73 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

GARDEN FANCIES 

THE flower's name 

Here's the garden sue w alked across, 

Arm in my arm, such a short while since: 
Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss 

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! 
5 She must liave reached this shrub ere she turned. 

As back with that murmur the wicket swung; 
For she hiid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, 

To feed and forget it the leaves among. 

Down this side of the gravel-walk 
10 She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: 

And here she paused in her gracious talk 

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. 
Roses, ranged in valiant row, 

I will never think that she passed you by! 
kS She loves you, noble roses, I know; 

But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! 

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, 
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; 

Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip 
20 Its soft meandering Spanish name: 

What a name! Was it love or praise? 
Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ? 

I must learn Spanish, one of these days, 
Onlv for that slow sweet name's sake. 



GARDEN FANCIES 77 

Roses, if I li/e and do well, 

I may bring her, one of these days, 
To fix you fast with as fine a spell. 

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; 
But do not detain me now; for she lingers 

There, like sunshine over the ground, 
And ever I see her soft white fingers 

Searching after the bud she found. 

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, 

Stay as you are and be loved for ever! 
Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not: 

Mind, the shut pink, month opens never ! 
For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, 

Twinkling the audacious leaves between, 
Till round they turn and down they nestle — 

Is not the dear mark still to be seen ? 



Where I find her not, beauties vanish; 

Whither I follow her, beauties flee; 
Is there no method to tell her in Spanish 

June's twice June since she breathed it with me ^ 
Come, bud, show me the least of her traces. 

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! 
— Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces- 
Roses, you are not so fair after all! 



7S SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

MEETING AT NIGHT 

The gray sea and the long black land; 
And the yellow half-moon large and low; 
And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; 
Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
1 And blue spurt of a lighted match. 

And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, 
Than the two hearts beating each to each! 

PARTING AT MORNING 

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim: 
And straight was a path of gold for him, 
And the need of a w^orld of men for me. 

EVELYN HOPE 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower. 
Beginning to die too, in the glass; 



EVELYN HOPE 79 

Little has yet been changed, I think: 
The shutters are shut, no Hght may pass 
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chin^ 

Sixteen years old when she died! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; » 

It was not her time to love; beside. 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 
Duties enough and little cares. 

And now was quiet, now astir, 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — i» 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 30 

And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 

We were fellow mortals, naught beside ? 

No, indeed! for God above ^^ 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love: 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 3«j 

Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 



8C SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

But the time will come, — at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
15 In the lower earth, in the years long still. 
That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red^ 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 
*o In the new life come in the old one's stead. 



I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. 

Given up myself so many times. 
Gained me the gains of various men. 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
45 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me: 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 

What is the issue? let us see! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! 
50 My heart seemed full as it could hold; 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile. 
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep: 
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! 
56 There, that is our secret: go to sleep! 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 



LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 81 

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, 

Miles and miles 
On the solitary pastures where our sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop 

As they crop — 
Was the site once of a city great and gay, 

(So they say) 
Of our country's very capital, its prince 

Ages since 
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far 

Peace or war. 

Now, — the country does not even boast a tree, 

As you see. 
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills 

From the hills 
Intersect and gi^e a name to, (else they run 

Into one) 
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires 

Up like fires 
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 

Bounding all, 
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed. 

Twelve abreast. 

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass 

Never was! 
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads 

And embeds 



82 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Every vestige of the city, gucssod alone, 
30 Stock or stone — 

Where n multitude of men breathed joy and woe 

Long ago; 
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of sliame 
Struck (tlieni tame; 
35 And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 
Bought and sold. 



Now, — the single little turret that remains 

On the plains. 
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 
40 Overscorcd, 

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks 

Through the chinks — 
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time 

Sprang sublime, 
46 And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced 

As they raced. 
And the monarch and his minions and his dames 

Viewed the ""ames. 



And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve 
60 Smiles to leave 

To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece 

In such peace. 
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray 
iVIelt away — 
s That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 
Waits me there 



LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 83 

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul 

For the goal, 
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, 
dumb 

Till I come. m 

But he looked upon the city, every side, 

Far and wide, 
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' 

Colonnades, 
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — and then, «5 

All the men! 
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, 

Either hand 
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace 

Of my face, 70 

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech 

Each on each. 

In one year they sent a million fighters forth 

South and North, 
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 75 

As the sky. 
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — 

Gold, of course. 
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns I 

Earth's returns so 

For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin I 

Shut them in. 
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest I 

Love is best. 



84 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY 

(as distinguished by an ITALIAN PERSON OF 

quality) 

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city- 
square; 
Ah, such a Hfe, such a hfe, as one leads at the window there! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! 
5 There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; 
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a 
beast. 

Well now, look at our villa ! stuck like the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull. 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! 
10 — I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned 
wool. 

But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses! 

Why? 
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something 

to take the eye! 
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; 
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who 

hurries by; 
15 Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun 

gets high; 
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted 

properly. 



UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY 85 

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by 

rights, 
'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well 

off the heights: 
You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen 

steam and wheeze, 
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive- 20 

trees. 
Is it better in May, I ask you ? Y^ou' ve summer all at once ; 
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three 

fingers well. 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red 

bell 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick 25 

and sell. 

Is it ever hot in the square ? There's a fountain to spout 
and splash! 

In the shade it sings and springs ; in the shine such foam- 
bows flash 

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle 
and pasli 

Round the lady atop in her conch — fifty gazers do not 
abash, 

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist 30 
in a sort of sash. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you 
linger, 

Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted fore- 
finger. 



86 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and 

mingle, 
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 
35 Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is 

shrill, 
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous 

firs on the hill. 
Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the 

fever and chill. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells 

begin : 
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: 
*o You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a 

pin. 
By-and-by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets 

blood, draws teeth; 
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 
At the post-ofhce such a scene-picture — the new play, 

piping hot! 
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves 

were shot. 
15 Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes. 
And beneath with his crown and his lion, some little new 

law of the Duke's ! 
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So- 
and-so 
"Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and 

Cicero, 
** And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) *'the skirts of 

Saint Paul has reached. 



UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY 87 

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctu- 50 

ous than ever he preached." 
Noon strikes, — here sweeps the procession! our Lady 

borne smiling and smart 
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords 

stuck in her heart! , 

Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; 
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure 

in life. 

But bless you, it's dear — it's dear! fowls, wine, at double 55 

the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays 

passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the 

city! 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still — ah, the pity, 

the pity! 
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with 

cowls and sandals. 
And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the 00 

yellow candles; 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross witk 

handles. 
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better 

prevention of scandals : 
Bang-'whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in 

life! 



88 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING ^ 

A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 

Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad to find ! 

I can hardly misconceive you ; it would prove me deaf and 

blind; 
But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy 

mind! 

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the 

good it brings. 
5 What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants 

were the kings. 
Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the 

sea with rings ? 

Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by 

. . . what you call 
. . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they 

kept the carnival: 
I was never out of England — it's as if I saw it all. 

10 Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was 
warm in May? 
Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid- 
day. 
When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do 
you say ? 

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, — 
On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on 
its bedo 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPl'S 89 

0*er the breast's superb abundance where a man might * 
base his head? 



Well, and it was graceful of them— they'd break talk off 
and afford 

— She, to bite her mask's black velvet — he, to finger on 
his sword, 

While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavi- 
chord ? 

What ? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, 

sigh on sigh, 
Told them something? Those suspensions, those solu- jc 

tions— ''Must we die?" 
Those commiserating sevenths — "Life might last! we can 

but try!" 

"Were you happy?"— "Yes."— ''And are you still as 
happy?" — "Yes. And you?" 

— "Then, more kisses!"— "Did / stop them, when a mil- 
lion seemed so few ? ' ' 

Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered 
to! 

So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, T „ 

dare say! 
"Brave Galuppil that was music! good alike at grave and 

gay! 
I can always leave off talking when I hear a master 

play!" 



90 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one 

by one, 
Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as 
well undone, 
so Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see 
the sun. 

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand 

nor swerve, 
While I triumph o^er a secret wrung from nature's close 

reserve. 
In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every 

nerve. 

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house 

was burned: 
35 ''Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what 

Venice earned. 
The soul, doubtless, is immortal — where a soul can be 

discerned. 

"Yours for instance; you know physics, something of 
geology. 

Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their 
degree; 

Butterflies may dread extinction, — you'll not die, it can- 
not be I 



" As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and 
drop, 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 91 

Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly 

were the crop : 
What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had 

to stop? 

*'Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart 

to scold. 
Dear dead women, with such hair, too — what's become of 

all the gold 
Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly and i^ 

grown old. / 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 

The morn when first it thunders in March, 

The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say: 
As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch 

Of the villa-gate this warm March day, 
No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled 

In the valley beneath where, white and wide 
And washed by the morning water-gold, 

Florence lay out on the mountain-side. 

River and bridge and street and square 

Lay mine, as much at my beck and call, 
Through the live translucent bath of air. 

As the sights in a magic crystal ball. 
And of all I saw and of all I praised. 

The most to praise and the best to see 
Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised : 

But why did it more than startle me? 



92 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Giotto, how, with that soul of yours, 

Could you play me false who loved you so? 
Some slights if a certain heart endures 

Yet it feels, I would have your fellows know! 
I* faith, I perceive not why I should care 

To break a silence that suits them best, 
But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear 

When I find a Giotto join the rest. 

On the arch where olives overhead 

Print the blue sky with twig and leaf, 
(That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed) 

'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief. 
And mark through the winter afternoons, 

By a gift God grants me now and then. 
In the mild decline of those suns like moons, 

Who walked in Florence, besides her men. 

They might chirp and chaffer, come and go 

For pleasure or profit, her men alive — 
My business was hardly with them, I trow. 

But with empty cells of the human hive; 
— With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch, 

The church's apsis, aisle or nave. 
Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, 

Its face set full for the sun to shave. 

Wherever a fresco peels and drops. 

Wherever an outline weakens and wanes 

Till the latest life in the painting stops. 
Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pain^*^ 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE Ob- 

One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick, 

Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, 
— A lion who dies of an ass's ki(i^, 

The wronged great soul of an ancient Master. 

For oh, this world and the wrong it does! 

They are safe in heaven with their backs to it, 
The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum &nd buzz 

Round the works of, you of the little wit! 
Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope, 

Now that they see God face to face. 
And have all attained to be poets, I hope? 

'Tis their holiday now, in any case. 

Much they reck of your praise and you! 

But the wronged great souls — can they be quit 
Of a world where their work is all to do. 

Where you style them, you of the little wit. 
Old INIaster This and Early the Other, 

Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows: 
A younger succeeds to an elder brother. 

Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos. 

And here where your praise might yield returns, 

And a handsome word or two give help, 
Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns 

And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. 
What, not a word for Stefano there, 

Of brow once prominent and starry. 
Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair 

For his peerless painting? (See Vasari.) 



94 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

There stands the Master. Study, my friends, 
What a man's work comes to! So he plans it, 
75 Performs it, perfectt it, makes amends 

For the toihng and moiling, and then, sic transit! 
Happier the thrifty blind-folk labour, 

With upturned eye while the hand is busy. 
Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbour! 
80 'Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy. 

"If you knew their work you would deal your dole." 

May I take upon me to instruct you? 
When Greek Art ran and reached the goal, 

Thus much had the world to boast in fructu — 
85 The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken, 

Which the actual generations garble, 
Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) 

And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. 

So, you saw yourself as you wished you were, 
90 As you might have been, as you cannot be; 
Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there: 
And grew content in your poor degree 
With your little power, by those statues' godhead, 
And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway, 
95 And your little grace, by their grace embodied. 
And your little date, by their forms that stay. 

You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am ? 

Even so, you will not sit like Theseus. 
You would prove a model ? The Son of Priam 
lOo Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use. 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 9o 

You're wroth — can you slay your snake like Apollo ? 

You're grieved — still Niobe's the grander! 
You live — there's the Racers' frieze to follow: 

You die — there's the dying Alexander. 

So, testing your weakness by their strength, 105 

Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty, 
Measured by Art in your breadth and length, 

You learned — to submit is a mortal's duty. 
— When I say "you" 'tis the common soul, 

The collective, I mean: the race of Man nc 

That receives life in parts to live in a whole, 

And grow here according to God's clear plan. 

Growth came when, looking your last on them all. 

You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day 
And cried with a start — What if we so small us 

Be greater and grander the while than they? 
Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature? 

In both, of such lower types are we 
Precisely because of our wider nature; 

For time, theirs — ours, for eternity. 120 

To-day's brief passion limits their range; 

It seethes with the morrow for us and more. 
They are perfect — how else? they shall never change: 

We are faulty — why not? we have time in store. 
The Artificer's hand is not arrested 12s 

With us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished: 
They stand for our copy, and, once invested 

With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. 



96 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven — 
iBo The better! What's come to perfection perishes. 
Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven: 

Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. 
Thyself shall afford the example, Giotto! 
Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish, 
135 Done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) "Of 
Thy great Campanile is still to finish. 

Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter. 
But what and where depend on life's minute? 

Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter 
140 Our first step out of the gulf or in it ? 

Shall Man, such step within his endeavour, 
Man's face, have no more play and action 

Than joy which is crystallized for ever, 
Or grief, an eternal petrifaction ? 

145 On which I conclude, that the early painters, 

To cries of ** Greek Art and what more wish you?*' — 
Replied, *'To become now self-acquainters, 
And paint man man, whatever the issue! 
Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray, 
JJ.Q New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters: 
To bring the invisible full into play! 

Let the visible go to the dogs — what matters?'* 

Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory 
For daring so much, before they well did it. 
issThe first of the new, in our race's story, 

Beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle qniddit. 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 97 

The worthies began a revolution, 

Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge, 

Why, honour them ijow! (ends my allocution) 

Nor confer your degree when the folk leave college. im 

There's a fancy some lean to and others hate — 

That, when this life is ended, begins 
New^ work for the soul in another state, 

Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins: 
Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries, les 

Repeat in large what they practised in small, 
Through life after life in unlimited series; 

Only the scale's to be changed, that's all. 

Yet I hardly know. Wlien a soul has seen 

By the means of Evil that Good is best, i?o 

And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene,— 

When our faith in the same has stood the test — 
Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod. 

The uses of labour are surely done; 
There remaineth a rest for the people of God: 175 

And I have had troubles enough, for one. 

But at any rate I have loved the season 

Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy; 
My srulptor is Nicolo the Pisan, 

My painter — who but Cimabue? isc 

Nor ever was man of them all indeed, 

From these to Ghiberti and Ghirlandajo, 
Could say that he missed my critic-meed. 

So, now to my special grievance — heigh ho! 



98 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

X85 Their ghosts still stand, as I said before, 
Watching each fresco flaked and rasped, 
Blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o'er: 

— No getting again what the church has grasped ! 
The works on the wall must take their chance; 
190 "Works never conceded to England's thick chine !'* 
(I hope they prefer their inheritance 
Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime.) 

When they go at length, with such a shaking 
Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly 
195 Each master his way through the black streets taking, 
Where many a lost work breathes though badly — 
W^hy don't they bethink them of who has merited ? 

Why not reveal while their pictures dree 
Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted? 
200 Why is it they never remember me? 

Not that I expect the great Bigordi, 

Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose; 
Nor the wTonged Lippino; and not a word I 

Say of a scrap of Fra Angelico's: 
205 But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, 

To grant me a taste of your intonaco, 
Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye? 

Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco? 

Could not the ghost with the close red cap, 
210 My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman. 
Save me a sample, give me the hap 

Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman? 



OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 99 

No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, 
Of finical touch and tempera crumbly — 
215 Could not Alesso Baldovinetti 

Contribute so much, I ask him humbly? 

Margheritone of Arezzo, 

With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret 
(Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so, 
220 You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) 
Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, 

Where in the foreground kneels the donor? 
If such remain, as is my conviction, 

The hoarding it does you but little honour. 

225 They pass; for them the panels may thrill, 
The tempera grow alive and tinglish; 
Their pictures are left to the mercies still 

Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the English, 
Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize, 
23C W'ill sell it to somebody calm as Zeno 
At naked High Art, and in ecstasies 
Before some clay-cold vile Carlino! 

No matter for these! But Giotto, you, 

Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it, — 
;:i5 Oh, never ! it shall not be counted true — 
That a certain precious little tablet 
Which Buonarroti eyed Hke a lover, — 

Was buried so long in oblivion's womb 
And, left for another than I to discover, 
240 Turns up at last I and to whom? — to whom? 



100 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito, 

(Or was it rather the Ognissanti ?) 
Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe! 

Nay, I shall have it yet! Detur amanti! 
My Koh-i-noor— or (if that's a platitude) 

Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Soft's eye; 
So, in anticipative gratitude, 

What if I take up my hope and prophesy ? 

When the hour grows ripe, ana a certain dotard 

Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing, 
To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard, 

We shall begin by way of rejoicing; 
None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge), 

Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer. 
Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge 

Over ^^lorello with squib and cracker. 

This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot- 
No mere display at the stone of Dante, 

But a kind of sober Witanagemot 

(Ex: "Casa Guidi," quod videas ante) 

Shall ponder, once EVeedom restored to Florence, 
How Art may return that departed with her. 

Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's, 
And bring us the days of Orgagna hither! 

How we shall prologuize, how we shall perorate. 

Utter fit things upon art and history. 
Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate. 

Make of the want of the age no mystery; 



*'DE GUSTIBUS " 101 

Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras, 

Show— monarchy ever its uncouth cub hcks 270 

Out of the bear's shape into Chimsera's, 

While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's. 

Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan, ^^ 

Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an "mrmo,") 
To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan, 275 

And turn the bell-tower's alt to alfissimo: 
And find as the beak of a young beccaccia 

The Campa.nile, the Duomo's fit ally. 
Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia, 

Completing Florence, as Florence Italy. 

Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold 

Is broken away, and the long-pent fire, 
Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled 

Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire 
While ''God and the People" plain for its motto, 

Thence the new tricolour flaps at the sky ? 
At least to foresee that glory of Giotto 

And Florence together, the first am I! 



"DE GUSTIBUS " 

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 

(If our loves remain) 

In an English lane. 
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice— 



280 



102 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

A boy and a girl, If the good fates please, 

Making love, say, — 

The happier they! 
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon, 
10 And let them pass, as they will too soon, 

With the hean-flowers' boon, 

And the blaekbird's tune. 

And May, and June! 

What I love best in all the world 

»5 Is a eastle, preeipiee-eneurled. 

In a gash of tlu^ wind-grieved Apennine. 
Or look for me, old fellow of mine, 
(If I ^et my head from out the mouth 
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, 

2^ And come again to the land of lands) — 

In a sea-side house to the farther South, 
Where the baked eieala dies of drouth. 
And one sharp tree — 'tis a eypress — stands, 
By the many hundred years red-rusted, 

25 Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ererusted, 

iNIy sentinel to guard the sands 
To the water's edge. For, what expands 
Before the house, but the great opaque 
Blue breadth of sea without a break ? 

f While, in the house, for ever erumbles 

Some fragment of the freseoed walls. 
From blisters where a scorpion sj)rawls. 
A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 
Down on the pavenuMit, green-flesh melons, 

» And savs there's news to-dav — the kinof 



HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 103 

Was shot at, touched in tlic Hver-wing, 

Goes with his Bourbon arm in a shng: 

— She hopes they have not caught the felons. 

Italy, my Italy! 

Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 

(When fortune's malice 

Lost her — Calais) — 
Open my heart and you will see 
Graved inside of it, "Italy." 
Such lovers old are I and she: 
So it always was, so shall ever be I 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

On, to be in England 

Now that April's there. 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, imawaro. 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now I * 

And after April, when May follows. 
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows I 
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 
Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over. 



104 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

15 Lest you should think he never could recapture 
The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 
The buttercups, the little children's dower 

20 — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died 
away; 

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz 
Bay; 

Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; 

In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar 
grand and gray; 
5 ''Here and here did England help me : how can I help Eng- 
land?"— say. 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and 
pray, 

While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 



SAUL 105 

SAUL 
I 

Said Abner, **At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou 

speak, 
Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I wished it, and 

did kiss his cheek. 
And he, "Since the King, O my friend, for thy counten- 
ance sent. 
Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his 

tent 
Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, 5 
Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be 

wet. 
For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three 

days. 
Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer nor 

of praise. 
To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their 

strife. 
And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back *® 

upon life. 

II 

"Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child with 

his dew 
On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and 

blue 
Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild 

heat 
Were now raging to torture the desert!" 



106 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

III 

Then I, as was meet, 

is Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, 

And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent 

was unlooped; 
I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped ; 
Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered 

and gone. 
That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on 
20 Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more 

I prayed. 
And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid 
But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!'* And no voice 

replied. 
At the first I saw naught but the blackness; but soon I 

descried 
A something more black than the blackness — the vast, 

the upright 
25 Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into 

sight 
Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all. 
Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, showed 

Saul. 



IV 



He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both arms stretched 

out wide 
On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each 

side: 



SAUL ^ 107 

He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there as, caught in his 30 

pangs 
And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs. 
Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come 
With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear and stark, 

blind and dumb. 



Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round 

its chords 
Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noon-tide — those 35 

sunbeams like swords! 
And I first played the tune all our sheep know as, one 

after one. 
So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. 
They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have 

fed 
Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's 

bed; 
And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows 40 

star 
Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue and so far I 

VI 

— Then the tune, for which quails on the cornland will 

each leave his mate 
To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate 
Till for boldness they fight one another; and then, what 

has weight 
To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house — 45 



108 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

There are none such as he for a wonder half bird and 

half mouse! 
God made all the creatures and gave them our love and 

our fear, 
To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. 

VII 

Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, 

when hand 
50 Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and 

great hearts expand 
And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — And then, 

the last song 
When the dead man is praised on his journey — "Bear, 

bear him along 
With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are 

balm-seeds not here 
To console us? The land has none left such as he on 

the bier. 
-^5 Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!" — And 

then, the glad chaunt 
Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, next, she 

whom we vaunt 
As the beauty, . the pride of our dwelling. — And then, 

the great march 
Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an 

arch 
Naught can break; who shall harm them, our friends?— 

Then, the chorus intoned 
60 As the Levites go to the altar in glory enthroned. 

But I stopped here: for here in the darkness Saul groaned. 



SAUL 109 



VIII 



And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened 
apart; 

And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered: and 
sparkles 'gan dart 

From the jewels that woke in his turban, at once with a 
start, 

All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at «& 
heart. 

So the head: but the body still moved not, still hung there 
erect. 

And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it un- 
checked, 

As I sang:^ 



IX 



"Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste, 
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew un- 7o 

braced. 
Oh, the wild joys of living 1 the leaping from rock up to 

rock, 
The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, the cool 

silver shock 
Of the plunge in a pool's living water, the hunt of the 

bear, 
And the sultriness showing the lion is couched in his lair. 
And the meal, the rich dates yellowed over with gold 7s 

dust divine, 



110 SELECTIOxNS FROM BROWNING 

And the locust-flesh steeped in the pitcher, the full 

draught of wine, 
And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes 

tell 
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and 

well. 
How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ 
^^ All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy ! 
Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose 

sword thou didst guard 
When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious 

reward ? 
Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as 

men sung 
The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint 

tongue 
^5 Joining in while it could to the witness, *Let one more 

attest, 
1 have lived, seen God's hand thro' a lifetime, and all 

was for best ' ? 
Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not 

much, but the rest. 
And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working 

whence grew 
Such result as, from seething grape-bundles, the spirit 

strained true: 
90 And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood of wonder 

and hope, 
Present promise and wealth of the future beyond the 

eye's scope, — 
Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; 



SAUL 111 

And all gifts, which the world offers singly, on one head 
combine! 

On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage 
(like the throe 

That, a-work in the rock, helps its labour and lets the 95 
gold go) 

High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crown- 
ing them, — all 

Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — King 
Saul!" 



And lo, with that leap of my spirit, — heart, hand, harp and 

voice. 
Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding re- 
joice 
Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as when, dare 100 

I say. 
The Lord's army, in rapture of service, strains through its 

array. 
And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — *'Saul!" cried I, 

and stopped. 
And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, 

who hung propped 
By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by 

his name. 
Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right 105 

to the aim. 
And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held 

(he alone. 



112 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING. 

While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a 

broad bust of stone 
A year's snow bound about for a breast-plate, — leaves 

grasp of the sheet ? 
Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously dt)wn to 

his feet, 
no And there fronts you, stark, black, but alive yet, your 

mountain of old, 
With his rents, the successive beqiieathings of ages untold — 
Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow 

and scar 
Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, 

there they are! 
— Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the 

nest 
115 Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green 

on his crest 
For their food in the ardours of summer. One long 

shudder thrilled 
All the tent till the very air tingled, tlien sank and was 

stilled 
At the King's self left stantling before me, released and 

aware. 
What was gone, what remained? All to traverse, 'twixt 

hope and despair; 
120 poath was past, life not come: so he waited. Awhile his 

right hand 
Held the brow, lu Id the eyes left too vacant forthwith to 

remand 
To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul 

as before. 



SAUL 113 

I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt 

any more 
Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the 

shore, 
At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's slow decline 125 
Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and 

entwine 
Base with base to knit strength more intensely: so, arm 

folded arm 
O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 

XI 

What spell or what charm, 
(For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next 

should I urge 
To sustain him where song had restored him? — Song 130 

filled to the verge 
His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields 
Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty: beyond, 

on what fields, 
Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye 
And bring blood to the lij), and commend them the cup 

they put by? 
He saith, **It is good;" still he drinks not: he lets me 133 

praise life, 
Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 

XII 

Then fancies grew rife 
Which had come long ago on the pasture, when round me 
the sheep 



Ill SELECTIONS FROM iUU)WNlNG 

Yvd in silence — above, the one eagle wlu^eled slow as in 

sleep ; 
And I lay in my hollow and nuised on the world that might 

lie 
'Xeath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill 

and the sky: 
And I laughed — "Since my days are ordained to be passed 

with my flocks, 
lA'i me people at least, with my fancies, the ])lains and 

the rocks, 
l>rcam the life I am never to mix with, and imag(> the 

show 
Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly sliall 

know I 
5 Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage 

that gains. 
And the prudence that keei)s what men strive for." And 

now these old trains 
Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; st), once 

more the string 
Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — 

xm 

"Yea, my King," 

1 began — "thou dotst well in rejecting mere cond'orts tha) 

spring 

J From the mere mortal life held in connnon by num and 

by brute: 

In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it 

bears fruit. 
Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, — how its 
stem trembled first 



SAUL 115 

Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely 

outburst 
The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when 

these too, in turn 
Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect: yet isa 

more was to learn, 
E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our 

dates shall we slight, 
When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care 

for the plight 
Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them ? 

Not so! stem and branch 
Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm- 
wine shall staunch 
Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee lec 

such wine. 
Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! 
By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still 

shalt enjoy 
More indeed, than at first when ineonscious, the life of 

a boy. 
Crush that life, and behold its wine • running! Each 

deed thou hast done 
Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as las 

the sun 
Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, 

though tempests efface. 
Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must every- 
where trace 
The results of his past summer-prime,— so, each ray of 

thy will 



116 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall 

thrill 
^° Thy whole people, the countless, with ardour, till they 

too give forth 
A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the South and 

the North 
With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in 

the past! 
But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last: 
As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, 
'^ So with man — so his power and his beauty forever take 

flight. 
No! Again a long draught of my soul-wine! Look forth 

o'er the years! 
Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with 

the seer's! 
Is Saul dead ? In the depth of the vale make his tomb — 

bid arise 
A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till, built 

to the skies, 
Let it mark where the great First King slumbers : whose 

fame would ye know ? 
Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record 

shall go 
In great characters cut by the scribe, — Such was Saul, 

so he did; 
With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, — 
For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which 

fault to amend, 
15 In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they 

shall spend 



SAUL . 117 

(See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and 

record 
With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — the statesman's 

great word 
Side by side witli the poet's sweet comment. The river's 

a-wave 
With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when 

prophet-winds rave: 
So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their 190 

part 
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that 

thou art!" 



XIV 



And l)ehold while I sang . . . but O Thou who didst 
grant me that day, 

Antl before it not seldom hast granted thy liel}) to essay, 

Carry on and complete an adventure, — my shield and my 
sword 

In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was 195 
my word, — 

Still be with me, who then at the summit of human en- 
deavour 

And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hope- 
less as ever 

On the new stretch of heaven above me — till, mighty to 
save, 

Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — God's 
throne from man's grave! 

Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to my heart 2o« 



118 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

AVhich can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I 

took part, 
As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my 

sheep, 
And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! 
For I wake in the gray dewy covert, w^iile Hebron upheaves 
The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and 

Kidron retrieves 
Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 



XV 



I say then, — my song 
AYhile I sang thus, assuruig the monarch, and ever more 

strong 
JNIade a proffer of good to console him — he slowly resumed 
His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right-hand 

replumed 
His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the 

swathes 
Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his counte- 
nance bathes. 
He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of 

yore. 
And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set 

before. 
He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error had bent 
5 The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, 

though much spent 
Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God 

did choose 



SAUL 119 

To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite 

lose. 
So sank he along by the tent-prop till, stayed by the pile 
Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned 

there awhile, 
And sat out my singing, — one arm round the tent-prop, 220 

to raise 
Plis bent head, and the other hung slack — till I touched on 

the praise 
I foresaw from all men in all time, to the man patient there; 
And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I 

was 'ware 
That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast 

knees 
Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak- 22f 

roots which please 
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to 

know 
If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, 

but slow 
Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care 
Soft {ind grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' 

my hair 
The large fingers were puslicd, and he bent back my head, 23f 

with kind power — • 
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. 
Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized 

mine — 
And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the 

sign? 
I yearned — '* Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss. 



120 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

35 I would add, to that life of the past, both the future and 
this ; 
I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, 
As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's heart 
to dispense!" 



XVI 



Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — no song 
more! outbroke — 



XVII 



**I have gone the whole round of creation: I saw and 1 

spoke : 
40 I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my 

brain 
And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — returned 

him again 
His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw: 
I report, as a man may of God's work — all's love, yet all's 

law. 
Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty 

tasked 
45 To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dewdrop 

was asked. 
Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom 

laid bare. 
Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the 

Infinite Care! 
Do I task any faculty highest, to image success ? 



SAUL 121 

I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more and no less, 
In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen 2Mt 

God 
In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the 

clod. 
And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew 
(With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises 

it too) 
The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's all- 
complete, 
As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet. 255 
Yet with all this abounding experience, this deity known, 
I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my 

own. 
There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, 
I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I laugh as I think) 
Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst 260 
E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I could love if I 

durst ! 
But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may overtake 
God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for 

love's sake. 
— What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when 

doors great and small, 
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hun- 265 

dredth appall? 
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest 

of all? 
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, 
That I doubt his own love can compete with it ? Here, 

the parts shift? 



122 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Ilcir, the creature surpass the Creator, — the end, what 

Began ? 
70 Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, 
And dare doubt he alone shall not help him, who yet alone 

can? 
Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, 

much less power, 
To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous 

dower 
Of the life he was gifted and filled wdth ? to make such a 

soul, 
75 Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the 

whole ? 
And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) 
These good things being given, to go on, and give one 

more, the best ? 
Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at 

the height 
This perfection, — succeed with life's day-spring, death's 

minute of night ? 
90 Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul the mistake, 
Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid him 

awake 
From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find him- 
self set 
Clear and safe in new light and new life — a new harmony 

yet 
To be run, and continued, and ended^who knows ? — or 

endure ! 
85 The man taught enough, by life's dream, of the rest to 

make sure; 



SAUL 123 

By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bUss, 
And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggles 
in this. 

XVIII 

''I believe it! 'Tis thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who 

receive: 
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. 
All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt 290 

to my prayer 
As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the 

air. 
From ,thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy 

dread* Sabaoth : 
/ will? — the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not 

loth 
To look that, even that in the face too ? Why is it I dare 
Think but lightly of such impuissance ? What stops my 295 

despair ? 
This; — 'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but 

what man Would do ! 
See the King — I would help him but cannot, the wishes 

fall through. 
Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to 

enrich. 
To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — knowing 

which, 
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through 300 

me now! 
Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst thou — 

so wilt thou! 



124 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

So shall crown (lu^c^ the topmost, inofTiihlost, iittormost 

crown — 
And thy love (ill infinitude wholly, nor lojivc up nor down 
One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, 
Gai 'l^M-n of eyc\ waveof hand, thai salvation joins issu(* with 

death! 
A« thy Love is discovered ahniohty, ahnio-hty be proved 
'I'hy ])Ower, that exists with iind for it, of being Beloved I 
lie who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall 

stand the most weak. 
"Hs the weakness in strength, that I cry for! my flesh, 

that I seek 
iiio In the (iod head! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall 

be 
\ Face like my face that receives thee; a Man like to me, 
Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever: a Hand like 

this hand 
Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the 

Christ stand!" 

XIX 

I know not too well how I found my way homi^ in tlu^ 
night. 
«i5 Thcn^ \v(M*e witnessi\s, cohorts abt)ut \m\ to left and to 



right. 



Angels, powers, tlu» unntt(M'i^d, unseen, tlu* alive, tlu^ aware; 
T repr(\ssed, 1 got through ihcin as hardly, as strugglingly 



lien\ 



As a runner besi^t by the populace famislu>d for news — 
Life or death. Tlu^ whole (>arth was awakened, lu^ll loostul 
with her crews; 



SAUL 125 

And tli(' slnrs of iiio;lit bent witli rmolioii, iiiid tingled and 3".o 

shot 
Out in (iro flic strong ])<'iin of pent knowledge: hut I 

fainted not, 
r\)r tlu^ Ilaiid still impelled nu^ at once and su|)p()rted, 

suppressed 
All the tumult, and (juenelied it Avitli (pii(>t, and holy 

l)(>hesl. 
Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the (>arth sank to 

rest. 
Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from .Tin 

earth- 
Not so much, hut I saw it die out in the day's tender hirth; 
In the gathered intensity l)r()Ught to the gray of the hills; 
In the shuddering forests' held l)reath; in the sudden wind- 
thrills; 
In th<' startled wild heasls that hore o(V, each with eye 

sidling still 
Though averted with wonder and dread; in the hirds still' 3;!0 

and ehill 
That rose heavily, as T approaeluMl tluMii, made stupid with 

awe : 
K'eii the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt the new law. 
The same stared in the white humid faees upturned hy the 

flowers; 
The same worked in llu^ heart of the cedar aiul moved the 

vine-howers: 
And the little hrooks witnessing murmured, persistent and 335 

low, 
With their obstinate, all hut hushed voices — **K'en so it 

is sol" 



Jl.'() SELK( riONS FUOM 1U{()\\N1NG 

MV srAii 

Am. 1 1 lilt I know 

or n «'(Mijiin sliir 
Is, it niP tlirow 

(Iiik<* \\\v mi«;l(>(| s|)iir) 
''' Now 11 (liirl ol" ictl, 

Now H <lurl of hliic; 
Till my rriciids \\i\\v said 
'Vhvy would I'aiu src, loo, 
INIy star (hat dartlcs tlu^ rod and (lie hliic! 
I) TlicMi it slops lik<' a hird; like a (lower, lian«;s furled: 

'I'luw iMUsI solatc lli(Mns(>lv(vs with (lie Saluni above i( 
\Vlia( luader ((» me if (heir s(ar is a world ? 

Mine has opened i(s soul (o uie; (herei'ore I lov<' ii 



TWO IN TIIK ( AMIWCNA 

I W<)Ni>Ki{ do you i'ei^l (o-day 

As 1 have* I'eU sine(\ hand in iiand, 

We sa( down on (he ^rass, (o s(ray 
In spiri( l>e((er (hronii;h (he land, 

This im)rn of Ivonie and May? 

For me, 1 (ouehed a (hou^h(, 1 know, 
lias (an(ali/,(»d me many (inn\s, 

(Like (urns of (hrcNid (he spiders (hrow 
Mocking aeross our ])a(h) lor rhymes 

'J\) ea(eh a( and le( ^o 



TWO IN riir; ("ami'acna ij? 

II(>I|> iiM> ((> hold il! V'wsi il Irl'l 

'VUv yellowing IViiiicI, imui (o seed 
TluM'c, ln-.MUcliiii^- from i\\v hrick work's clcri, 

Some old loiiih's riLn; yonder wccc' 
'^Pook ii|) (lie llojiliii^' well, 

Where one ,sin;dl orjiu^c ( iij> .•iiiiji.ssed 

I^'ive l)ee(les, blind iuu\ ^n-een I hey jjjropo 

Aniontr (he honey-meal: and la.sl, 
hA'eryvvhere on I he grassy slope 

1 (raced il. Hold il I'asl ! 

'I'lie ehani|)ai|j;n with its endless necce 

or leathery jrnisses everywhere I 
Silence and passion, joy and |)eacc, 

An <'V(Mlasting wash of air 
Rome's ohosl since her decease. 

Sn<'h life here, Ihron^h snch len^lhs of liours, 

Snch miracles |)erformed in play. 
Such |)rinial naked forms of IIow<'rs, 

Snch ledin^ nalnre have her way 
Wliilc heaven looks from its low<'rsI 

How say yoii V l/cl ns, O my dove, 

Let lis be imashained of soul, 
As earth lies bare to heaven above! 

I low is it under our control 
To love or not to love? 

I would (hat you were all lo iik;, 

You that an' just so nmcli, no more., 



128 



sI':lI';("H()NS vhom hijowninc 



Nor yours nor miiic, nor s\',\\v nor IVccI 

VVlirn^ (l()(\s (l»(! I'aiill li<'V Wliiil (lie core 
O' llic woiMid, ,sinc(^ wound nnisl be? 

I would 1 could iidopl your will, 
Sc(» with your eyes, mid sel my Iiearl 

Beiiling" l)y yours, mid drink my lill 

Al your .soul's s|)rin<;s, your |)ml my pnri 

In life, for «»;()()«J mid ill. 

No. I yeurn upward, (oucli you close, 
'I'hen slmid away. 1 kiss your clieeic, 

Calcli your soul's wariulh,- I pluck (lie rose 
And lovt^ it more tliau lon^uc cmi speak — 

Tlien (lie <;()0(l uiinule <;'()(>s. 

Already how am 1 so i'ar 

Out ol Ihai ininulc? Musi 1 «;-o 

Still like theilhisllc-hall, no bar, 

Onwaird, whenever li^dil winds blow, 

iMved bv no rrieiidlv slar? 



•lusl when 1 stHMiicd ab«)Ut (o learn! 

\Vhere i,s (he (hr(>ad now? ( )IV attain' 
The old (rick! Only I disc(M-n 

Inrmile passion, and the pain 
( )f linile lu^irts that vearn. 



IN rilHl<;M DAYS 129 

IN TURKK I)A^S 

So, I slijill sec licr in (luce djiys 

And jiisj one ni^lil, l)iil ni^lils jii'c sliorl, 

TIkmi (wo Ioii^' hours, iiiid (Iial is iiioni. 

Sec how I come, iiii<'liaii*i;<'<l, iiiiwoni! 

FtH'l, vvIkm-c my HIV hrokc oil" liom ihiiic, 5 

How fresh tlic si)liii(('rs keep and liix", - 

Only ii touch and we eoinhiue! 

Too lono', (Ills lime ol' yeai", (h(^ days! 

liul ni|;h(s, at h'ast (he ni^'lits an^ short. 

As ni<:;ht shows w lirre liei- one moon is, 10 

A Iiand's-hreachli ot" pure n<;h( and ))Iiss, 

So life's niojii oives my lady hirdi 

And my eyes hold her! What is worth 

'^J^lie rest of hea\'en, the rest of earth? 

O loaded curls, I'clease your store m 

Of warmth and scent, as once before 

The tingling hair did, lights and darks 

Out bicaking into fairy sparks. 

When under curl and curl 1 pried 

After the warmth and sc<Mit inside, • 20 

''J'Jiro* lights and darks how manifold — 

'i'he dark inspired, the light controlled! 

As early Art embrowns the gohJ. 

What great fear, should on(^ say, "Three days 

That change the world might change as well ^^ 

Your fortune; and if joy delays, 



130 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Be happy that no worse befell!" 
What small fear, if another says, 
"Three days and one short night beside 
May throw no shadow on your ways; 
But years must teem with change untried, 
With chance not easily defied, ^ 

With an end somewhere undescried." 
No fear! — or if a fear be born 
This minute, it dies out in scorn. 
Fear? I shall see her in three days 
And one night, now the nights are short, 
Then just two hours, and that is morn. 



THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL 

A PICTURE AT FANO 

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave 

That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! 

Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
Shall find performed thy special ministry. 

And time come for departure, thou, suspending 

Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending. 
Another still, to quiet and retrieve. 

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, 
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, 

— And suddenly my head is covered o'er 

With those wings, white above the child who prays 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL j3) 

Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee guarding 
Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding 

Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. 

I would not look up thither past thy head is 

Because the door opes, like that child, I know, 

For I should have thy gracious face instead. 

Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend nie low 

L\ke him, and lay, like his, my hands together. 

And lift them up to pray, and gently tether 2c 

Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread ? 

If this was ever granted, I would rest 

My head beneath thine, wliile thy healing hands 

Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast. 

Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, 25 

Back to its proper size again, and smoothing 

Distortion down till every nerve had soothing. 
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. 

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! 

I think how I should view the earth and skies 30 

And sea, when once again my brow was bared 

After thy healing, with such different eyes. 
O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty: 
And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. 

What further may be sought for or declared? 35 

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach 

(Alfred, dear friend!) — that little child to pray, 
Holding the little hands up, each to each 



132 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Pressed gently, — with his own head turned away 
40 Over the earth where so much lay before him 

Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him. 
And he was left at Fano by the beach. 

We were at Fano, and three times we went 
To sit and see him in his chapel there, 
45 And drink his beauty to our soul's content 
— ^ly angel with me too: and since I ?are 
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power 
And glory comes this picture for a dower, 
Frauii:ht with a pathos so magnificent) — 

50 And since he did not work thus earnestly 

At all times, and has else endured some wrong — 
I took one thought his })icture struck from me, 

And spread it out, translating it to song. 
My love is here. AVhcre are you, dear old friend ? ' 
55 How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end ? 
This is Ancona, vonder is the sea. 



ME^NIORABILIA 

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 
And did he stop and speak to you 

And did you speak to him again? 
How strange it seems and new! 

But you were living before that, 
And also you are living after; 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 133 

And the memory I started at— 
My starting moves your laughter. 

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 

And a certain use in the world no doubt, lo 

Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
']Mid the blank miles round about: 

For there I picked up on the heather 

And there I put inside my breast 
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! 15 

Well, I forget the rest, 



INCIDENT OP THE FKENCH CAMP 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused **My plans 

That soar, to earth may fail, 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

W'aver at yonder wall."-^ 



i34 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Out 'twixt the battorv-sniokes tliere flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-gallo}>ing; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smihng joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through) 
i"ou looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

"We've got you Ratisbon! 
The Marshal's in the market-place. 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes; 
"You're wounded!" "Nay," Ihe soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said: 
"I'm killed. Sire!" And hLs chief beside 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 



MY LAST DUCHESS 135 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

FERRARA 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 

Looking as if she were alive. I call 

That piece a wonder, now : Fr^ Pandolf s hands 

Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said 5 

"Fr^ Pandolf" by design, for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance. 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) n 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps ih 

Yrh Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 

For calling up that spot of- joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, zb 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bouffh of cherries some officious fool 



136 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Broke in tlie orchard for her, tlie white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good ! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss. 

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then \'ould be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt. 

Whene'er I passed her; but who j^assed without 

jNIuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat. 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 

Which Clans of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! 



THE BOY AND THE ANGEL 137 

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL 

Morning, evening, noon and night, 
*' Praise God!" sang Theoerite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned, 
Whereby the daily meal was earned. 

Hard he laboured, long and well; • 

O'er his work the boy's eurls fell. 

But ever, at each period, 

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!" 

Then back again his curls he threw, 

And cheerful turned to work anew. ^^ 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, *'Well done 
I doubt not thou art heard, my son: 

''As well as if thy voice to-day 

Were praising God, the Pope's great w^ay. 

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome is 

Praises God from Peter's dome." 

Said Theoerite, "W^ould God that I 

Might praise him, that great way, and die!" 

Night passed, day shone, 

And Theoerite was gone. fo 



138 SELICCTIONS FROM BROWNING 

With (jod a day endures ahvay, 
A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in heaven, **Nor day nor night 
Now brings the voice of my dehght." 

B8 '^rhen Gabriel, hke a rainbow's birth, 

Spread his wings and sank to earth; 

Entered, in flesh, tlie empty cell, 

Lived there, and played the craftsman well; 

And morning, evening, noon and night, 
80 Praised (xod in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew: 
The man })ut olf the stripling's hue: 

The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay: 

35 And ever o'er the trade he bent. 

And ever lived on earth content. 

(He did God's will; to him, all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 

God said, "A praise is in mine ear; 
40 There is no doubt in it, no fear: 

**So sing old worlds, and so 

New worlds that from my footstool go. 



46 



THE BOY AND THE ANGEL j.39 

"Clcjirer loves soiiiul otlier ways: 
I miss my little humtin praise." 

Then forth sprang Gabriers wings, off fell 
'J he flesh disguise, remained the eell. 

Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peter's dome. 

In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer galleiy, 

With his holy vestments diglit, 
Stood the new Pope, Theoerite. 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clcai-. 



Since when, a boy, he j)lied his trade, "^s 

Till on his life the sickness weighed; 

And in his cell, when death drew near, 
An angel in a dream brought cheer: 

And rising from the sickness drear 

He grew a priest, and now stood here, eo 

To the East with ])raise he turned, 
And on his sight the angel burned. 



140 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

**I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell 
And set thee here; I did not well. 

«5 ** Vainly I left my angel-sphere, 

Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

''Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped- 
Creation's chorus stopped! 

"Go back and praise again 
70 The early way, while I remain. 

"With that weak voice of our disdain, 
Take up creation's pausing strain. 

"Back to the cell and poor employ: 
Resume the craftsman and the boy!" 

7f Theocrite grew old at home; 

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome^ 

One vanished as the other died: 
They sought God side by sidco- 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN i4l 

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN; 
A child's story 



Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Planover city; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its w^all on the southern side; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied; 8 

But, when begins my ditty, 
Ahnost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk sviffer so 

From vermin, was a pity. 

II 

Rats ! 10 

They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles. 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15 

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. a. 

Ill 



At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking* 



142 SELECTIO.X;:; FROM BR()\VNL\(} 

'"Tis clear," cried thc\ "our Mayor's a noddy 

And as for our Corporjit mi — shocking 

'1\) think we buy o-owns lii xl with ermine 

For dohs that can't or won'i ietermine 

^Vllat's best to rid us of our vo min ! 

You liope, because you're old and obese, 

To find in the furry civic robe ease? 

House up, sirs! Give your brains a rackino; 

To find the remedy we're lacking, 

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" 

At this the ]\Iayor and Corporation 

Quaked with a miglity consternation. 



IV 



An hour they sat in council, 

At length the Mayor broke silence: 
''For a guilder Fd my ermine gown sell, 

I wish I were a mile hence! 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — 
Fm sure my poor head aches again, 
Fve scratched it so, and all in vain. 
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 
'* Bless us," cried the Mayor, ** what's that?" 
(With the Corporation as he sat. 
Looking little though wondrous fat; 
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster, 
Save when at noon his j)aunch grew mutinous 



THE TIED PIPF.R OF llAMELlN 14;} 

For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) 
**C)nly a seraping of shoes on tlie mat? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" 



**Come in!' — the Mayor eried, looking bigger: 55 

And in did eome the strangest figure! 

'His queer long eoat from heel to head 

Was half of yellow and half of red, 

And he himself was tall and thin, 

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, M 

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 

No tuft on eheek nor beard on chin, 

But lips where smiles went out and in; 

There was no guessing his kith and kin: 

And nobody eould enough admire gK 

The tall man and his quaint attire. 

Quoth one: **It's as my great-grandsire, 

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, 

Had walked tin.'-" way from his painted tombstone? * 



VI 



He advaneed to the eouneil-table: vo 

And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, 
By means of a seeret eharm, to draw 

All creatures living beneath the sun. 

That creep or swim or fly or lun. 
After me so as you never saw! ni 



144 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And I chiefly use my charm 

On creatures that do people harm, 

The mole and toad and newt and viper; 

And people call me the Pied Piper." 
so (And here they noticed round his neck 

A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 

To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; 

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying 
85 As if impatient to be playing 

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 

Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 

"Yet," said he, ''poor piper as I am. 

In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
90 Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 

I eased in Asia the Nizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: 

And as for what your brain bewilders. 
If I can rid your town of rats 
OS Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 

**One? fifty thousand!" — was the exclamation 

Of the astonished ^Nlayor and Corporation. 



VII 



Into the street the Piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 
As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while; 
Then, like a musical adepts 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 145 

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; los 

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 

You heard as if an army muttered; 

And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; 

x\nd out of the houses the rats came tumbling. no 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 

Brow^n rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, us 

Families by tens and dozens, 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing, 
And step for step they followed dancing, 12c 

Until they came to the river Weser, 

Wherein all plunged and perished! 
— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 

(As he, the manuscript he cherished) 125 

To Rat-land home his commentary: 
Which was, *'At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
Into a cider-press's gripe: 130 

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards. 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks. 
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: 



146 SELECTIOxNS FROM BROWNIxNG 

135 And it seemed as if a voice 

(Sweeter far than by harp or b}' psahery 
Is breathed) called out, *Oh rats, rejoice! 

The world is grown to one vast tlrysaltorv! 
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncluH)u, 

140 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon I* 
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. 
All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
(jlorious scarce an inch before me, 
Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me'' 

H5 - 1 found the Weser rolling o'er me." 



VIII 



You should have heard the Ilamelin people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. 
"Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes I 
150 (^onsult with carpenters and builders. 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats!" — when suddenly, up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 
With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!** 



IX 



«55 A thousand guilders! The ]\Iayor looketl blue; 
So tlid the Corporation too. 
For council dinners made rare havoc 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock: 
And half the money would re})lenish 



THE PIKI) I'lPKll OF HAMELIN 147 

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. loa 

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! 

"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, 

"Our business was done at the river's brink; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, ws 

And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 

From the duty of giving you something for drink, 

And a matter of money to put in your poke; 

But as for the guilders, what we spoke i7o 

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. 

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" 



The Piper's face fell, and he cried 

"No trifling! I can't wait, beside! its 

I've promised to visit by dinner time 

Bagdat, and accept the prime 

Of the Head-Cook's |)ottage, all he's rich in, 

For having left, in the Cali})h's kitchen. 

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: is^ 

With him I proved no bargain-driver. 

With you, don't think Fll bate a stiver! 

And folks who put me in a passion 

May find me }:>ipe after another fashion." 

XI 

"How? cried the Mayor, "d'ye tliink I brook w'* 

Being worse treated than a Cook ? 



148 SELECTIONS FROM HKOW.MNG 

Insulted by a lazy ribald 
With idle pipe and vesture ])iebald ? 
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 
190 Blow your pipe there till you burst!" - 



XII 



Once more he stept into the street 
And to his lips again 

Laid his lono' pipe of smooth straight eane; 
And ere he blew three notes (sueh sweet 
»9o Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air) 

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; 

Small feet wcM-e pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
200 Little hands clai)ping and little tongues chattering, 

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
205 And sparkling eyes and teeth like ])earls, 

Trij^ping and skip})ing, ran merrily after 

The wonderful music with shoutino- and lauii'hter. 



XIII 

The jNIayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 



THE PllvD PIl'KH OF IIAMELIN 149 

Unable to move a step, or cry 210 

To the children merrily skipping by, 

— Could only follow with the eye 

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 

But how the Mayor was on the rack, 

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, -is 

As the Piper tuned frcm the High Street 

To where the Weser rohed its waters 

Right in the way of their sons and daughters! 

However he turiuMl from South to West, 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220 

And after him the children pressed; 

Great was the joy in every breast. 

"He never can cross that mighty top! 

He's forced to let the piping drop, 

And we shall see our children stop!" 225 

When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, 

A wondrous ])ortal ()])ene(l wide, 

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowcMl ; 

And the Piper advanced and the chil(h'(Mi followed, 

And when all were in to the very last, 230 

Tlie door in the mountain-side shut fast. 

Did 1 say, all? No! One was lame, 

And could not dance the whole of the way; 
And in after years, if you would blame 

His sadness, he was used to say, — 2r, 

''It's dull in our town since my playmates left! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
Which the Piper also ])r(miised me. 
For he led us, lie said, to a joyous land, 240 



150 SrXECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew 
And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
And everything was strange and new; 

245 Hio sparrows were brighter than peaeoeks here, 

And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
And horses were born with eagles' wings: 
And just as 1 beeanie assured 

2r>o ]\Iy lame foot would be speedily cured, 

The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the hill, 
I^eft alone against my will, 
To go now limping as before, 

255 And never hear of that country more!" 



XIV 



Alas, alas for liamelinl 

There came into many a burgher's pate 

A text which says that heaven's gate 

Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye takes a camel in! 
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, 
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth. 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he'd only return the way he went. 

And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, 
And Piper and dancers were gone forever, 



TllK I'lED PIPKJi 01* JIAMKLIN 151 

They made a decree tliat lawyers never 

Should think their records (hited chily 2/0 

If, after the day of the month and year, 
These words did not as well apj)ear, 
''And so long after what happened here 

On the Twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" 275 

And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children's last retreat, 
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street — 
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labour. 28o 

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 

To shock with mirth a street so solemn; 
But opposite the place of the cavern 

They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the great church-window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away, 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people who ascribe 
The outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbours lay such stress, 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterraneous prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago in a mighty band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land. 
But how or why, they don't understand. 



285 



390 



152 SELECTIOxNS FROM BROWNING 



XV 



300 So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers! 

And, whether they pipe us free fr6m rats or fr6m mice, 

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 



You're my friend: 

I was the man the Duke spoke to; 

I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too; 
So here's the tale from beginning to end, 
My friend! 



II 



Ours is a great wild country: 
If you climb to our castle's top, 
I don't see where your eye can stop; 

For when you've passed the cornfield country, 
10 Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, 

And sheep-range k^ds to cattle-tract. 

And cattle-tract to open-chase, 

And open-chase to the very base 

Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace, 
15 Round about, solemn and slow, 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 153 

One by one, row after row, 
Up and up the pine-trees go. 
So, like black priests up, and so 
Down the other side again 

To another greater, wilder country, 
That's one vast red drear burnt-up plain. 
Branched through and through with many a vein 
Whence iron's dug, and copper's dealt; 

Look right, look left, look straight before, — ' 
Beneath they mine, above they smelt. 

Copper-ore and iron-ore. 
And forge and furnace mould and melt 

And so on, more and ever more. 
Till at the last, for a bounding belt. 

Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea shore, 
— And the whole is our Duke's country. 



Ill 



I was born the day this present Duke was — 
(And O, says the song, ere I was old!) 

In the castle where the other Duke was— 
(When I was happy and young, not old!) 

I in the kennel, he in the bower: 

AVe are of like age to an hour. 

INIy father was huntsman in that day; 

Who has not heard my father say 

That, when a boar was brought to bay, 

Three times, four times out of five, 

With his huntspear he'd contrive 

To get the killing-place transfixed, 



154 SELECTIOJM^^ l^.HOM BROWiNiiNG 

And ])in liim true, both eyes betwixt? 
<5 And that's why the old Duke would rather 
He lost a salt-pit than my father, 
And loved to have him ever in call; 
That's why my father stood in the hall 
AVhen the old Duke brought his infant out 
50 To show the people, and while they passed 

The wondrous bantling round about, 

Was first to start at the outside blast 
As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn 
Just a month after the babe was born. 
55 "And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, "since 
The Duke has got an heir, our Prince 

Needs the Duke's self at his side:" 
The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, 

But he thought of wars o'er the world wide, 
60 Castles a-fire, men on their march, 

The toppling tower, the crashing arch; 

And up he looked, and awhile he eyed 
The row of crests and shields and banners 
Of all achievements after all manners, 
« And **ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. 

The more was his comfort when he died 
At next year's end, in a velvet suit, 
With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot 
In a silken shoe for a leather boot, 
70 Petticoated like a herald. 

In a chamber next to an ante-rooni. 

Where he breathed the breath of page and grooMi, 

What he called stink, and they, perfume: 
— Thev should have set him on red Berold 



THE FLKIHT OF i'lIE DUCHESfc 155 

iVlad with pride, like fire to manage! 

They should have got bis cheek fresh tannage 

Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine! 

Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! 

(Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game I 

Oh for a noble falcon-lanner 

To flap each broad wing like a bani.er, 

And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) 

Had they broached a white-beer cask from Berlin 

— Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine 

Put to his lips, when they saw him pine, 

A cup of our own Moldavia fine, 

Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel 

And ropy with sweet, — we shall not quarrel. 



IV 



So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess 
Was left with the infant in her clutches, 
She being the daughter of God knows who: 

And now was the time to revisit her tribe. 
Abroad and afar they went, the two. 

And let our people rail and gibe 
At the empty hall and extinguished fire, 

As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, 
Till after long years we had our desire. 

And back came the Duke and his mother again. 



And he came back tlie pertest little ape 
That ever afl'ronted human shape " 



loG SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Full of his travel, struck at himself. 

You'd say, he despised our bluff old ways? 

— Not he! For in Paris they told the elf 

Our rough North land was the Land of Lays, 
«o5 The one good thing left in evil days; 

Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, 
And only in wild nooks like ours 

Could you taste of it yet as in its prime. 
And see true castles, with proper towers, 
no Young-hearted women, old-minded men, 

And manners now as manners were tlien. 

So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it. 

This Duke would fain know he was, without being it; 

'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, 
115 Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, 

He revived all usages thoroughly worn-out. 

The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out : 

And chief in the chase his neck he perilled 

On a lathy horse, all legs and length, 
120 With blood for bone, all speed, no strength; 

— They should have set him on red Berold 

With the red eye slow consuming in fire. 

And the thin stiff ear like an abbey-spire! 



VI 



Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard: 

And out of a convent, at the word. 

Came the lady, in time of spring. 

— Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! 

That dav, I know, with a dozen oatlus 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 157 

I clad myself in thick jiunting-clothes 

Fit for the chase of urochs or buffle i3o 

In winter-time when you need to muffle. 

But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure, 

And so we saw the lady arrive: 
My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger! 

She was the smallest lady alive, "5 

Made in a piece of nature's madness. 
Too small, almost, for the life and gladness 

That over-filled her, as some hive 
Out of the bears' reach on the high trees 
Is crowded with its safe merry bees: **^ 

In truth, she was not hard to please! - 
Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, 
Straight at the castle, that's best indeed 
To look at from outside the walls: 

As for us, styled the "serfs* and thralls," "5 

She as much thanked me as if she had said it, 

(With her eyes, do you understand ?) 
Because I patted her horse while T led it; 

And Max, who rode on her other hand, 
Said, no bird flew past but she inquired ^^^ 

What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired — 
If that w^as an eagle she saw hover. 

And the green and gray bird on the field was the plover. 
When suddenly appeared the Duke: 

And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed iss 

On to my hand, — as with a rebuke. 

And as if his backbone were not jointed, 
The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, 

And welcomed her with his grandest smile; 



158 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And, mind you, his mother all the while 
Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward; 
And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys 
Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; 
And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, 
The lady's face stopped its play. 
As if her first hair had grown gray; 
For such things must begin some one day. 



VII 



In a day or two she was well again; 

As who should say, ''You labour in vain! 

This is all a jest against God, who meant 

I should ever be, as I am, content 

And glad in his sight; therefore, glad I will be." 

So, smiling as at first went she. 



VIII 



She was active, stirring, all fire — 
'.^ Could not rest, could not tire — 

To a stone she might have given life! 
(I myself loved once, in my day) 

^ — For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, 
(1 had a wife, I know what I say) 
Ro Never in all the world such an one! 

And here was plenty to be done. 

And she that could do it, great or small. 

She was to do nothing at all. 

There was already this man in his post, 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS i59 

This in his station, and that in his office, isa 

And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most, 

To meet his eye, with the other trophies. 
Now outside the hall, now in it. 

To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen. 
At the proper place in the proper minute, loo 

And die away the life between. 
And it was amusing enough, each infraction 

Of rule — (but for after-sadness that came) 
To hear the consummate self-satisfaction 

With which the young Duke and the old dame m 

Would let her advise, and criticise. 
And, being a fool, instruct the w^ise. 

And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame: 
They bore it all in complacent guise, 

xAs though an artificer, after contriving 200 

A wheel-work image as if it w^ere living, 
Should find with delight it could motion to strike him! 
So found the Duke, and his mother like him: 
The lady hardly got a rebuff — 

That had not been contemptuous enough, 205 

With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, 
And kept off the old mother-cat's claws. 



IX 



So, the little lady grew silent and thin, ' 

Paling and ever paling. 
As the way is with a hid chagrin; 210 

And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, 
And said in his heart, *"Tis done to spite me. 



160 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

But I shall find in my power to right me!" 
Don't swear, friend! The old one, many a year, 
215 Is in hell, and the Duke's self . . . you shall hear. 



Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, 
AYhen the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, 
A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice 
That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, 
220 Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, 

And another and another, and faster and faster, 
Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled; 

Then it so chanced that the Duke our master 
Asked himself what were the pleasures in season, 
225 And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, 
He should do the Middle Age no treason 

In resolving on a hunting-party. 
Always provided, old books showed the way of it! 
What meant old poets by their strictures ? 
230 And when old poets had said their say of it. 
How taught old painters in their pictures ? 
We must revert to the proper channels. 
Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, 
And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: 
235 Here was food for our various ambitions. 
As on each case, exactly stated — 

To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup, 
Or best prayer to Saint Hubert on mounting your stir- 
rup — 
We of the household took thought and debated. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 161 

Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin 240 

His sire was wont to do forest- work in; 

Blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs" 

And "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose; 

What signified hats if they had no rims on, 

Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, 245 

And able to serve at sea for a shallop, 
I/oaded with lacquer and looped with crimson ? 
So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on't. 

What with our Venerers, Prickers and Verderers, 

Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, 2so 
And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on't! 

XI 

Now you must know that the first dizziness 

Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided, 
The Duke put this question, ''The Duke's part provided. 

Had not the Duchess some share in the business?" 255 

For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses 

Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses : 

And, after much laying of heads together, 

Somebody's cap got a notable feather 

By the announcement with proper unction ^eo 

That he had discovered the lady's function; 

Since ancient authors gave this tenet, 

''When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege. 
Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet. 
And, with water to wash the hands of her liege 26^ 

In a clean ewer with a fair toweling, 

Let her preside at the disemboweling." 

Now, my friend, if you had so .little religion 



162 SELECTION « l^KOM BROWNING 

As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, 
?!W And thrust her broad wings Hke a banner 
Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon; 
And if day by day and week by week 

You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, 
And clipped her wings, and tied her beak, 
275 Would it cause you any great surprise 
If, w^hen you decided to give her an airing, 
You found she needed a little preparing? 
• — I say, should you be such a curmudgeon, 
If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon ? 
280 Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, 

Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, 
In what a pleasure she was to participate, — 
And, instead of leaping wdde in flashes, 
Her eyes just lifted their long lashes, 
^5 As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate. 
And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought. 
But spoke of her health, if her health were w^orth aught, 
Of the weight by day and the w^atch by night. 
And much wrong now that used to be right, 
290 So, thanking him, declined the hunting, — 
Was conduct ever more affronting ? 
With all the ceremony settled — 

With the tow^el ready, and the sewer 
Polishing up his oldest ewer, 
295 And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald. 

Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled, — 
No wonder if the Duke was nettled! 
And when she persisted nevertheless, — 
Well, I suppose here's the time to confess 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 163 

That there ran half round our lady's chamber 300 

A balcony none of the hardest to clamber; 

And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting, 

Stayed in call outside, what need of relating ? 

And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent 

Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant; 305 

And if she had the habit to peep through the casement. 

How could I keep at any vast distance ? 

And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence. 
The Duke, dumb-stricken with amazement, 
Stood for a while in a sultry smother, 310 

And then, with a smile that partook of the awful. 
Turned her over to his yellow mother 

To learn what was held decorous and lawful; 
And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct. 
As her cheek quick whitened thro' all its quince-tinct. 3i5 

Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! 

What meant she ? — Who was she ? — Her duty and 
station. 
The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once. 

Its decent regard and its fitting relation — 
In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free 320 

And turn them out to carouse in a belfry 
And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon. 
And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on . 
Well, somehow or other it ended at last 
And, licking her whiskers, out she passed; 325 

And after her, — making (he hoped) a face 

Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, 
Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace 

Of ancient hero or modern paladin. 



164 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

«3o From door to staircase — oh such a solemn 
Unbending of the vertebral column I 

XII 

However, at sunrise our company mustered; 

And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, 
And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, 
^^ With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; 
For the court-yard walls were filled w^ith fog 
You might have cut as an axe chops a log — 
Like so much wool for colour and bulkiness; 
i^nd out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness, 
»4o Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, 

And a sinking at the lower abdomen 

Begins the day with indifferent omen. 
And lo, as he looked around uneasily. 
The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder 
345 This way and that from the vahey under; 

And, looking through the court-yard arch, 
Down in the valley, what should meet him 

But a troop of Gipsies on their march ? 
No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him. 

XIII 

^0 Now, in your land, Gipsies reach you, only 
After reaching all lands beside; 
North they go. South they go, trooping or lonely, 

And still, as they travel far and wide. 
Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, 
,55 That puts you in mind of a place here, a place therf 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 165 

But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground, 
And nowhere else, I take it, are found 
With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned: 
Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on 
The very fruit they are meant to feed on. 
For the earth — not a use to which they don't turn it, 
The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, 
Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, 
They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it — 
Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle 
With side-bars never a brute can baffle; 
Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards; 
Or, if your colt's fore-foot inclines to curve inwards, 
Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel 
And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. 
Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle 
That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; 
But the sand— they pinch and pound it like otters; 
Commend me to Gipsy glass-makers and potters! 
Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, 
Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear. 
As if in pure water you dropped and let die 
A bruised black-blooded mulberry; 
And that other sort, their crowning pride. 
With long white threads distinct inside. 
Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle 
Loose such a length and never tangle, 
Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters. 
And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters: 
Such are the works they put their hand to, 
The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. 



166 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally 
Toward his castle from out of the valley, 
Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, 

.'lao Come out with the morning to greet our riders. 
And up they wound till they reached the ditch, 
Whereat all stopped save one, a witch 
That I knew, as she hobbled from the group, 
By her gait directly and her stoop, 

395 I, whom Jac}iith was used to importune 
To let that same witch tell us our fortune. 
The oldest Gipsy then above ground; 
And, sure as the autumn season came round, 
She paid us a visit for profit or })astime, 

400 And every time, as she swore, for the last time. 
And presently she was seen to sidle 
Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle. 
So that the horse of a sudtlen reared up 
As under its nose the old witch })eered up 

405 With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes 
Of no use now but to gather brine. 
And began a kind of level whine 
Such as they used to sing to their viols 
When their ditties they go grinding 

410 Up and down with nobody minding: 

And then, as of old, at the end of the humming 

Her usual presents were forthcoming 

— A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, 

(Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,) 

415 Or a porcelain mouth-piece to screw on a pipe-end, — 
And so she awaited her annual stipend. 
But this tinio. fli*^ Duke would scarcelv vouchsafe 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 16/ 

A word in reply; and in vain she felt 

With twitching fingers at- her belt 

For the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, 450 

Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe, — 
Till, either to quicken his apprehension, 
Or possibly with an after-intention, 
She was come, she said, to })ay her duty 
To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. ^25 

No sooner liad she named his lady, 
Than a shine lit up the face so shady. 
And its smirk returned with a novel meaning — 
For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning; 
If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, 430 

She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow; 
And who so fit a teacher of trouble 
As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? 
So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, 

(If such it was, for they grow so hirsute 435 

That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) 
He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture. 
The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate 
With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. 
I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 440 

From out of the throng, and while I drew near 
He told the crone — as I since have reckoned 

By the way he bent and spoke into her ear 
With circumspection and mystery — 

The main of the lady's history, ms 

Her frowardness and ingratitude: 
And for all the crone s submissive attitude 
I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, 



1G8 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And lier brow with assenting intelligence brightening, 
450 As though she engaged with hearty good-will 
Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil, 
And promised the lady a thorough frightening. 
And so, just giving her a glimpse 
Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps 
455 'I'he wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, 
He bade me take the Gipsy mother 
And set her telling some story or other 
Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, 
To wile away a weary hour 
400 For the lady left alone in her bower, 
Whose mind and body craved exertion 
And vet shrank from all better diversion. 



XIV 



Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, 

Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo 
Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor. 

And back I turned and bade the crone follow. 
And what makes me confident what's to be told you 

Had all along been of this crone's devising. 
Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, 

There was a novelty quick as surprising: 
For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, 

And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered. 
As if age had foregone its usurpature. 

And the ignoble mien was wholly altered, 
Aiul the face looked quite of another nature, 
A:ui the change reached too, whatever the change meant, 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 169 

Her shao-gy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: 
For where its tatters hung loose like sedges, 
Gold coins were glittering on the edges, 
T>ike the band-roll strung wath tomans 
Which proves the veil a Persian woman's: 
And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly 

Come out as after the rain he paces, 
Two unmistakable eye-points duly 

Live and aware looked out of their places. 
So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry 
Of the lady's chamber standing sentry; 
I told the connnand and produced my companion, 
And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, 
For since last night, by the same token, 
Not a single word had the lady spoken : 
They went in both to the presence together. 
While I in the balcony watched the w^eather. 

XV 

And now^ what took place at the very first of all, 

I cannot tell, as I never could learn it: 

Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall 

On that little head of hers and burn it 

If she knew how^ she came to drop so soundly 

Asleep of a sudden and there continue 
The whole time sleeping as ])rofoundly 

As one of the boars my father would pin you 
'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, 
—Jacynth forgive me the comparison ! 
But where I begin my own narration 
Is a little after 1 took my station 



485 



170 IS ELECTION 8 FROM BROWN INC, 

To hivatlic tlie frosli air from the balcony, 
And, liaviiio; in thoso days a falcon eye, 
To follow the hunt thro' the open country, 
From where the hushes thinlier crested 

510 The hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. 

When, in a moment, my ear was arrested 
By — was it sing-inix, or was it sayin*i^. 
Or a stranav musical instrument playing 
In the chamber?— and to be certain 

r)i5 1 pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain. 

And there lay Jacynth asleep, 
Yet as if a watch she iv'ivd to keej), 
In a rosy sleep alouii' the floor 
With her head against the door; 

"•-'o While in the midst, on the seat of state, 

Was a queen — the (iipsy woman late, 
With head and face downbeut 
On the lady's heatl and face intent: 
For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, 

525 The lady sat between her knees 

And o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, 
And on those hands her chin was set, 
And her upturned face met the face of the crone 
Wherein the eves had o-rown and o'roMu 

ISO As if she could double and (piadruple 

At pleasure the play of either pupil 

— Verv like, bv her hands' slow fanning, 
As up and tlown like a gor-crow's flappers 
They moved to measure, or bell-clappei*s. 

M5 I said "Is it blessing, is it banning, 

Do they apj^laud you or burlesque you — 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 171 

Those liands and finojors witli no flesh on?" 
But, just as 1 tliought to spring in to the rescue. 

At onee 1 wjis stopped by the lady's expression: 
For it was hi'e her ey(\s were (h'inking 5i( 

From the crone's wi(k' pair above unwinking, 
— Life's pure fire received without shrinking, 
Into the heart and breast wliose heaving 
Fohl you no single drop they were leaving, 
— Life, that filling her, passed nMJundant 545 

Into her very hair, back swerving 
Over each shoulder, loos'* and abundant, 

As her head thrown back showed the white throiit 
curving: 
And the very tresses shared in the pleasure. 
Moving to the mystic measure, wr 

Bounding as the bosom bounded. 
I stoj)pe(l short, more and more confounded, 
As still her cliceks burned and eyes glistened, 
As she listened and she listened: 

When all at once a hand detained nie, 'iJ>. 

The selfsame contagion gained me. 
And 1 kept time to the wondrous chime, 
Making out words and ]:)rose and rhyme. 
Till it seemed that the music furled 

Its wings like a task fulfilled, and (lro])))ed />6( 

FVom under the words it first had pro})pedj 
And left them midway in the world: 
Word took word as hand takes hand, 
I could hear at last, and understand, 

And when I held the unbroken thread, ^t»' 

The (Jij)sy said: — 



172 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

*'And so at last we find my tribe. 

And so I set thee in the midst, 

And to one and all of them describe 
570 What thou saidst and what thou didst, 

Our long and terrible journey through, 

And all thou art ready to say and do 

In the trials that remain: 

I trace them the vein and the other vein 
•>75 That meet on thy brow and part again. 

Making our rapid mystic mark; 

And I bid my j:)eople prove and probe 
Each eye's profound and glorious globe 

Till they detect the kindred spark 
580 In those de])ths so dear and dark, 

Like the spots that snap and burst and flee, 

Circling over the midnight sea. 

And on that round young cheek of thine 
I make them recognize the tinge, 
585 As when of the costly scarlet wine 

They drip so much as will impinge 

And spread in a thinnest scale afloat 

One thick gold drop from the olive's coat 

Over a silver plate whose sheen 
590 Still thro' the mixture shall be seen. 

For so I prove thee, to one and all, 
Fit, when my people ope their breast, 

To see the sign, and hear the call. 
And take the vow, and stand the test 
5«»5 Which adds one more child to the rest — 

When the breast is bare and the arms are wide, 

And the world is left outside. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 173 

For ihvYv is probation to dccnH*, 

And many and long mnst the trials he 

Thou slialt victoriously cMulurc, 

If that brow is true and those eyes are sure; 

Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay 

Of the prize he dug from its niountain-tonib — 

Let once the vindicating ray 

Leap out amid the anxious gloom, 

And steel and fire have done their part 

And the i)ri/e falls on its finder's heart; 

So, trial after trial past. 

Wilt thou fall at the very last 

Breathless, half in trance 

With the thrill of the great deliverance, 
Into our arms forevennore; 

And thou shalt know, those arms once curled 
About thee, what we knew before, 

How love is the only good in the world. 
Henceforth be loved as heart can love, 
Or brain devise, or hand approve! 
Stand up, look below, 
It is our life at thy feet we throw 
To step with into light and joy; 
Not a power of life but we employ 
To satisfy thy nature's want; 
Art thou the tree that projis the plant. 
Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree- 
Canst thou help us, must we help thee? 
If any two creatures grew into one. 
They would do more than the world has done: 
Though each apart were never so weak. 



625 



174 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Ye vainly through the world should seek 
630 For tlie knowledge and the might 

Which in such union grew their right: 

So, to approach at least that end, 

And blend, — as much as may be, blend 

Thee with us or us with thee, — 
635 As climbing plant or propping tree, 

Shall some one deck thee, over and down, 
Up and about, with blossoms and leaves? 

Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crowni, 
Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, 
640 Die on thy boughs and disaj^pear 

While not a leaf of thine is sere? 

Or is the other fate in store. 

And art thou fitted to adore, 

To give thy wondrous self away, 
645 And take a stronger nature's sway? 

I foresee and could foretell 

Thy future portion, sure and well: 

But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, 

Let them say what thou shalt do! 
ef'O Only be sure thy daily life, 

In its peace or in its strife. 

Never shall be unobserved; 
We pursue thy whole career. 
And hope for it, or doubt, or fear, — 
of'S Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, 

We are beside thee in all thy ways. 

With our blame, with our praise. 

Our shame to feel, our pride to show, 

Glad, angry — but indifferent, no! 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 175 

Whether it be thy lot to go, 

For the good of us all, where the haters meet 

In the crowded city's horrible street; 

Or thou step alone through the morass 

Where never sound yet was 

Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, 

For the air is still, and the water still, 

When' the blue breast of the dipping coot 

Dives under, and all is mute. 

So, at the last shall come old age, 

Decrepit as befits that stage; 

How else wouldst thou retire apart 

With the hoarded memories of thy heart, 

And gather all to the very least 

Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, 

Let fall through eagerness to find 

The crowning dainties yet behind? 

Ponder on the entire past 

Laid together thus at last. 

When the twilight helps to fuse 

The first fresh with the faded hues, 

And the outline of the whole, 

As round eve's shades their framework roll, 

Grandly fronts for once thy soul. 

And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam 

Of yet another morning breaks, 
And like the hand which ends a dream, 
Death, with the might of his sunbeam, 

Touches the flesh and the soul aw^akes, 

Then'' 

Ay, then indeed something w^ould happeni 



176 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

690 But what? For here her voice changed like a bird's; 
There grew more of the music and less of the words; 
Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen 
To paper and put you down every syllable 
With those clever clerkly fingers, 
095 All I'v.^ forgotten as well as what lingers 
In this old brain of mine that's but ill able 
To give you even this poor version 

Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering 
— More fault of those who had the hammering 
700 Of prosody into me and syntax. 

And did it, not with hobnails but tin-tacks! 
But to return from this excursion, — 
Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, 
The peace most deep and the charm completest, 
705 There came, shall I say, a snap — 
And the charm vanished! 
And my sense returned, so strangely banished, 
And, starting as from a nap, 
I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, 
710 With Jacynth asleep; and but one spring made I 
Down from the casement, round to the portal, 

Another minute and 1 had entered, — 
W'hen the door opened, and more than mortal 
Stood, with a face where to my mind centred 
715 AH beauties I ever saw or shall see. 

The Duchess: I stopped as if struck by pdsyo 
She was so different, happy and beautiful, 
I felt at once that all was best, 
And that I had nothing to do, for the rest, 
720 But wait her commands, obey and be dutif Jo 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 177 

Not that, in fact, there was any commanding; 

I saw the glory of her eye, 
And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, 

And I was hers to Hve or to die. 
As for finding what she wanted, 725 

You know God Ahiiighty granted 
Such Httle signs should serve wild creatures 

To tell one another all their desires, 

So that each knows what his friend requires, 
And does its bidding without teachers. 730 

I preceded her; the crone 
Followed silent and alone; 
I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered 

In the old style; both her eyes had slunk 

Back to their pits; her stature shrunk; 735 

In short, the soul in its body sunk 
Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. 
We descended, I preceding; 
Crossed the court with nobody heeding; 
All the world was at the chase, 740 

The courtyard like a desert-place. 
The stable emptied of its small fry; 
I saddled myself the very palfrey 
I remember patting while it carried her, 
The day she arrived and the Duke married her. 745 

And, do you know, though it's easy deceiving 
Oneself in such matters, I can't help believing 
The lady had not forgotten it either. 
And knew the poor devil so much beneath her 
Would have been only too glad for her service 750 

To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, 



178 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, 
Was reduced to that pitiful- method of showing it: 
For though the moment I began setting 

755 His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, 
(Not that I meant to be obtrusive) 
She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, 
By a single rapid finger's lifting, 
And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, 

760 And a little shake of the head, refused me, — 
I say, although she never used me. 
Yet when she was mounted, the Gipsy behind her^ 
And I ventured to remind her, 
I suppose with a voice of less steadiness 

765 Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, 

— Something to the effect that I was in readiness 
Whenever God should please she needed me, — 
Then, do you know, her face looked down on me 
With a look that placed a crown on me, 

'70 And she felt in her bosom, — mark, her bosom — 
And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom. 
Dropped me . . . ah, had it been a purse 
Of silver, my friend, or gold that's worse. 
Why, you see, as soon as I found myself 

775 So understood, — that a true heart so may gain - 

Such a reward, — I should have gone home agai:^ 
Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! 
It was a little plait of hair 

Such as friends in a convent make 

780 To wear, each for the other's sake, — 
This, see, which at my breast I wear. 
Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), 



THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 179 

And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. 

And then, — and then, — to cut short, — this is idle, 

These are feelings it is not good to foster, — tss 

I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle. 

And the palfrey bounded, — and so we lost her. 



XVI 



When the liquor's out why clink the cannikin? 

I did think to describe you the panic in 

The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin^ 790 

And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness. 
How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib 
Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, 

When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness 

— But it seems such child's play, 795 

What they said and did with the lady away! 

And to dance on, when we've lost the music. 

Always made me — and no doubt makes you — sick. 

Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern 

As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, soo 

She that kept it in constant good humour, 

It ought to have stopped ; there seemed nothing to do more. 

But the world thought otherwise and went on. 

And my head's one that its spite was spent on; 

Th'rty years are fled since that morning, sos 

And with them all my head's adorning. 

Nor did the old Duchess die outright, 

As you expect, of suppressed spite, 

The natural end of every adder 

Not suffered to empty its poison-bladdei ; sio 



180 SKl.l'X'riONS FROM BROWNING 

But she and her son agreed, I take it, 
That no one should touch on the story to wake it, 
For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery. 
So, they made no search and snuill inquiry — 

nr, And when fresh Gipsies have {)aid us a visit, I've 
Noticed the couple were never in(]uisitive, 
But told them they're folks tlu^ Duke don't want here, 
And bade them nuike haste and cross the frontier. 
Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, 

820 And the old one was in the young one's stead, 
And took, in her ])lace, the household's head. 
And a blessed time the household had of it! 
And were I not, as a man may say, cautious 
How T trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, 

«2.'' 1 could favour you with sundry touches 

Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess 
Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness 
(To get on faster) until at last her 
Cheek grew to be one master-plaster 

830 Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: 
In short, she grew from scalp to udder 
Just the object to make you shudder. 



XVII 



You're my friend — 

What a thing friendship is, world without end! 

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up 

As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet. 
And poured out, all lovelily, sparkliugly, sunlit, 

Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup. 



THE FLIcniT OF Till] DUCHESS 181 

Cotnar as old as tho limo of tlio Diuids 

FritMulship may match with that monarch of (hiids; 84o 

Eacli supples a dry brain, (ills you its ins-and-outs, 

(Jives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thi!i sand 

doubts 
Whether to run on or stop short, and guarant(M\s 
Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. 
I have s(^en my little lady onci^ moi"(\ 84R 

Jacynth, the Gipsy, Berold, and (he resi of i(, 
For to me spoke the Duke, as I tohl you before; 

I always wanted to nwdvc a clean bnvist of it: 
And now it is uiade — why, my h(>art's blood, that went 
trickle, 

Trickle, but anon, in such muddy (hiblets, sso 

Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, 

And genially floats me about tlu* giblets. 
I'll tell you what I intend to do: 
I must see this fellow his sad life through — 
lie is our Duke, after all, sss 

And I, as he says, but a s(>rf and thrall. 
My father was born here, and I iidierit 

Ilis fame, a chain he bound his son with; 
(^ould I pay in a lump I should prefer it. 

But there's no mine to blow up and get dow(* with: «<"> 

So, 1 must stay till tlu» end of the chapt(M\ 
For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, 
B(^ it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, 
Some day or other, his head in a morion 
And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, ses 

Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. 
And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, 



182 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust. 
Then I shall scrape together my earnings; 
870 For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, 

And our children all went the way of the roses. 
It's a long lane that knows no turnings. 
One needs but little tackle to travel in; 

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: 
»75 And for a staff, what beats the javelin 

With which his boars my father pinned you? 
And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, 

Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, 
I sliall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly! 
880 Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. 

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; 

Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: 

When we mind labour, then only, we're too old — 
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul ? 
885 And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, 

(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) 

I hope to get safely out of the turmoil 
And arrive one day at the land of the Gipsies, 
And find my lady, or hear the last news of her 
890 From some old thief and son of Lucifer, 

His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, 
Sunburned all over like an .^thiop. 
And when my Cotnar begins to operate 
And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, 
895 And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, 
I shall drop in with — as if by accident — 
*' You never knew, then, how it all ended, 
Wiidi fortune ';ood or bad attp:KKHl 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 183 

The little lady your Queen befriended?" 

— And when that's told me, what's remaining? ooo 

This world's too hard for my explaining. 

The same wise judge of matters equine 

Who still preferred some slim four-year-old 

To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, 
And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, 905 

He also must be such a lady's scorner! 

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: 

Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw. 
— So, I shall find out some snug corner 

Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, 910 

Turn myself round and bid the world good night; 
And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing 

Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) 
To a world where will be no further throwinir 

Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen! 9i<; 



I 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN 
EUROPE 



Let us begin and carry up this corpse. 



Singing together. 



Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes 

Each in its tether 
Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 

Cared-for till cock-crow: 



184 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Look out if yonder be not day again 

Rimming the rock-row! 
That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, 
10 Rarer, intenser, 

Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, 

Chafes in the censer. 
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; 

Seek we sepulture 
15 On a tall mountain, citied to the top, 

Crowded with culture! 
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; 

Clouds overcome it; 
No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's 
20 Circling its summit. 

Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights; 

Wait ye the warning? 
Our low life was the level's and the night's; 

He's for the morning. 
25 Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 

'Ware the beholders! 
This is our master, famous calm and dead. 

Borne on our shoulders. 

Sleep, crop and herd ! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, 
30 Safe from the weather! 

He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, 

Singing together, 
He was a man born with thy face and throat, 
Lyric Apollo! 
35 Long he lived nameless: how should Spring take note 
Winter would follow ? 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 185 

Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone( 

Cramped and diminished, 
Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! 

My dance is finished?" 
No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, 

Make for the city!) 
He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride 

Over men's pity; 
Left play for work, and grappled with the world 

Bent on escaping: 
"What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? 

Show me their shaping. 
Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, — 

Give!" — So, he gowned him, 
Straight got by heart that book to its last page: 

Learned, we found him. 
Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead. 

Accents uncertain : 
"Time to taste life," another would have said, 

"Up with the curtain!" 
This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? 

Patience a moment! 
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed texty 

Still there's the comment. 
Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, 

Painful or easy! 
Even to the crumbs Fd fain eat up the feast, 

Ay, nor feel queasy." 
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, 

When he had learned it, 



186 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

When he had gathered all books had to give! 

Sooner, he spurned it. 
Image the whole, then execute the parts — 
70 Fancy the fabric 

Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, 

Ere mortar dab brick! 

(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place i 
Gaping before us.) 
75 Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 
(Hearten our chorus!) 
That before living he'd learn how to live — 

No end to learning: 
Earn the means first — God surely will contrive 
80 Use for our earning. 

Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: 

Live now or never!" 
He said, ''What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! 
]Man has Forever." 
85 Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: 
Calculus racked him: 
Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: 

Tiissis attacked him. 
"Now, master, take a little rest!" — not he! 
00 (Caution redoubled, 

Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) 

Not a whit troubled 
Back to his studies, fresher than at first, 
Fierce as a dragon 
95 He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 
Sucke<^' -^t the flagon. 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 187 

Oh, if we draw a circle premature, 

Heedless of far gain, 
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 

Bad is our bargain ? «>< 

Was it not great ? did not he throw on God, 

(He loves the burthen) — 
God's task to make the heavenly period 

Perfect the earthen ? 
Did not he magnify the mind, show clear tw 

Just what it all meant ? 
He would not discount life, as fools do here, 

Paid by instalment. 
He ventured neck or nothing— heaven's success 

Found, or earth's failure: iir 

"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes: 

Hence with life's pale lure!" 
That low man seeks a little thing to do, 

Sees it and does it: 
This high man, with a great thing to pursue, n;. 

Dies ere he knows it. 
That low man goes on adding one to one, 

His hundred's soon hit: 
This high man, aiming at a miUion, 

Misses an unit. 120 

That, has the world here — should he need the next, 

Let the world mind him! 
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed 

Seeking shall find him. 
So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, ^ 

Ground he at grammar; 



188 SELECTIONS EROM BROWNING 

Still, thro' the rattle, parts of s})cec'h were rife: 

While he eould stammer 
He settled Ilotis business — let it be! — 
130 Properly based Oun — 

(lave us the doctrine of the enclitic De^ 

Dead from the waist down. 
Well, here's the platform, here's the proper pkce: 

Hail to your purlieus, 
»3'' All ye highfliers of the feathered race. 

Swallows and curlews! 
Here's the top-peak; the multitude below 

Live, for they can, there: 
This man decided not to Live but Know — 
uo Bury this man there? 

Here — here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, 

Lightnings are loosened, 
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, 

Peace let the dew send! 
145 Lofty designs must close in like effects: 

Loftily lying. 
Leave him — still loftier than the world suspects. 

Living and dying. 



"CHILDE KULAND" 189 

"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK 
TOWER CAME" 

(See Edgar's song in "Lear") 

jMy first thought was, he Hcd In every word, 

That hoary cri})})le, with inahcious eye 

Askanee to watch the working of his he 
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford 
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored * 

Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. 

What else should he be set for, with his staff? 
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare 
All travellers who might find him posted there. 
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh w 
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph 
Wn- pastime in the dusty thoroughfare. 

If at liis counsel I should turn aside 

Into that ominous tract which, all agree, 

Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly is 

I did turn as he pointed: neither pride 
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, 

So much as gladness that some end might be. 

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering. 

What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope 29 
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 

With that obstreperous joy success would bring, 

I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring 
Mv heart made, finding failure in its scope. 



190 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

25 As when a sick man very near to death 

Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end 
The tears and takes the farewell of each friends 
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath 
Freelier outside, (''since all is o'er," he saith, 
30 "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;") 

While some discuss if near the other graves 
Be room enough for this, and when a day 
Suits best for carrying the corpse away, 

With care about the banners, scarves and staves: 
35 And still the man hears all, and only craves 

He may not shatne such tender love and stay. 

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest. 
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ 
So many times among "The Band" — to wit, 
40 The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed 

Their steps — that just to fail as they, seemed best, 
And all the doubt was now — should I be fit ? 

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him. 
That hateful cripple, out of his highway 
45 Into the path he pointed. All the day 
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim 
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim 
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. 

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found 
M Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 

Than, pausing to throw backward a last view 



''CHILDE ROLAND" 19.1 

O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round: 
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. 
I might go on; naught else remained to do. 

So, on I went. I think I never saw m 

Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: 
For flowers — as well expect a cedar grove! 
But cockle, spurge, according to their law 
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, 

You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove. 60 

No ! penury, inertness and grimace. 

In some strange sort, were the land's portion. *'See 

Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, 
**It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 
'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, es 

Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free." 

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk 

Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents 
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents 

In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk ^o 

All hope of greenness ? 'tis a brute must walk 
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. 

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair 
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud 
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. » 

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare. 

Stood stupefied, however he came there: 

Thrust out past service from the devil's stud^ 



!92 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, 
80 With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, 

And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; 
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe: 
I never saw a brute I hated so; 

He must be wicked to deserve such pain. 

w I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. 
As a man calls for wine before he fights, 
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights. 
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 
Think first, fight afterwards — the soldier's art: 
w One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face 

Beneath its garniture of curly gold, 

Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold 
An arm in mine to fix me to the place, 
«5 That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! 

Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. 

Giles then, the soul of honour — there he stands 
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. 
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. 
100 Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! what hangman hands 

Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands 
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! 

Better this present than a past like that; 
Back therefore to my darkening path again! 
105 No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. 



"CHILDE ROLAND" 193 

Will the night send a howlet or a bat ? 

I asked: when something on the dismal flat 

Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. 

A sudden little river crossed my path 

As unexpected as a serpent comes. "'^ 

No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; 
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath 
For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the wrath 

Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. 

So petty yet so spiteful! All along, "s 

Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; 

Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit 
Of mute despair, a suicidal throng; 
The river which had done them all the wrong, 

Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. 120 

Which, while I forded, — good saints, how I feared 
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek. 
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek 

For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! 

It may have been a water-rat I speared, 125 

But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. 

Glad was I when I reached the other bank. 

Now for a better country. Vain presage! 

Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, 
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank *3® 

Soil to a plash ? Toads in a poisoned tank, 

Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — 



194 SELEC^riONS FKOM BUOWNINC, 

The fight must so have seemed in tliat fell cirque. 

What penned them there, uilh all the ])lain to choose? 

No foot-print leading to that horrid mews, 
None out of it. jNIad brewage set to work 
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk 

Pits for his pastime. Christians against Jews. 

And more than that — a furlong on — why, there! 
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, 
Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit to reel 

Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air 

Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, 

Or brought to shar})en its rusty teeth of steel. 

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, 
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now^ mere earth 
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth, 
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood 
(lianges and off he goes!) within a rood — 

Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth. 

Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim, 
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's 
Broke into moss or substances like boils; 

Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him 

Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim 
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils. 

And just as far as ever from the end! 

Naught in the distance but the evening, naught 
To poiiit my footstep further! At the thought, 



"CHILDE ROLAND" 195 

A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friond, w 

Sailed past, nor beat his wide wino- dragon-penned 

That brushed my cap — j)erchance the guide I sought. 

For, looking uj), aware I somehow grew, 

'Spite of the dusk, the ])lain liad given place 

All round to mountains — with such name to grace m 

Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. 

How thus tlu^y had sur])nse(l me, — solve it, you! 
How to get from them was no clearer case. 

Yet half I seemed to recogniz? some trick 

Of mischief haj)pen(>d to me, (iod knows when — i7f 

In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, 

Progress this way. When, in <h(^ very nick 

Of giving up, one time more, came a click 

As when a trap shuts — you're inside the den I 

Burningly it came on me all at once, ,-- 

This was the place! those two hills on the right, 
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in figh( ; 

While to the left, a tall scalped mountain . . . Dunc(\ 

Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, 

•Vfter a life spent training for the sight! iso 

What in the midst lay but \\w Tower itself? 
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, 
Built of brown stone, without a counterpart 
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf 
Points to the shipnum thus (lie unseen shelf is* 

He strikes on, only when the timbers start. 



196 SELECTIONS FROM BROW.MxXG 

Not see ? because of night perliaps ? — why, day 
Came back again for that! before it loft, 
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft; 
190 The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, 
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay, — 

"Now stab and end the creature — to the hefi'" 

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled 
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears 
195 Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — 

How such a one was strong, and such was bold, 

And such was fortunate, yet each of old 

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years. 

There they stood, ranged along the hillside, met 
200 To view the last of me, a living frame 

For one more picture! in a sheet of flame 
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet 
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set. 

And blew. "Childc Roland to the Dark Tower came. 



HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY 

I ONLY knew one poet in my life: 

And this, or something like it, was his way. 

You saw go- up and down Valladolid, 
A man of mark, to know next time you .^-aw. 
5 His very serviceable suit of black 



HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY 197 

Was courtly once and conscientious still, 

And many might have worn it, thouf>:li none did: 

The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, 

Had purpose, and the rufl', significance. 

He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, lo 

Scenting the world, looking it full in face. 

An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. 

They turned up, now, the alley by the church, 

That leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves 

On the main promenade just at the wrong time: is 

You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, 

Making a peaked shade blacker than itself 

Against the single window spared some house 

Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work, — 

Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick 20 

Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks 

Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. 

He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade. 

The man who slices lemons into drink, 

The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys 25 

That volunteer to help him turn its winch. 

He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye. 

And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string, 

And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. 

He took such cognizance of men and things, 3P 

If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; 

If any cursed a woman, he took note; 

Yet stared at nobody, — you stared at him. 

And found, less to your pleasure than surprise. 

He seemed to know you and expect as much. ^ 

So, next time that a neighbour's tongue was loosed. 



198 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

It marked the shameful and notorious fact. 

We had among us, not so much a spy, 

As a recording chief-inquisitor, 

The town's true master if the town but knew! 

We merely kept a governor for form, 

While this man walked about and took account 

Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, 

And wrote it fully to our Lord the King 

Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, 

And reads them in his bedroom of a night. 

Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, 

A tang of . . . well, it was not wholly ease 

As back into your mind the man's look came. 

Stricken in years a little, — such a brow 

His eyes had to live under! — clear as flint 

On either side the formidable nose 

Curved, cut and coloured like an eagle's claw. 

Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate? 

When altogether old B. disappeared 

And young C. got his mistress, — was't our friend, 

His letter to the King, that did it all ? 

What paid the bloodless man for so much pains? 

Our Lord the King has favourites manifold. 

And shifts his ministry some once a month; 

Our city gets new governors at whiles, — 

But never word or sign, that I could hear, 

Notified to this man about the streets 

The King's approval of those letters conned 

Tlie last thihoj duly at the dead of night. 

Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord, 

Exliorting when none heard — "Beseech me not! 



HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY 199 

Too far above my people, — beneath me! 

I set the watch, — how should the peopl*^ know? 

Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" 70 

Was some such understanding 'twixt the two? 

I found no truth in one report at least — 
That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes 
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace. 
You found he ate his supper in a room 75 

Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall. 
And twenty naked girls to change his plate! 
Poor man, he lived another kind of life 
In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, 
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! " w) 

The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, 
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, 
Playing a decent cribbage with his maid 
(Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese 
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, 85 

Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, 
Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he. 

My father, like the man of sense he was. 
Would point him out to me a dozen times; 
" 'St— 'St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor!" ^o 

I had been used to think that personage 
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, 
And feathers like a forest in his hat, 
Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news. 
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, "^ 

And memorized the miracle in vogue! 



200 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

He had a great observance from us boys; 
We were in error; that was not the man. 

. I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, 

(ou To have just looked, when this man came to die, 
And seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides 
And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, 
With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. 
Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, 

05 Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death, 
Doing the King's work all the dim day long. 
In his old coat and up to knees in mud, 
Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust, — 
And, now the day was won, relieved at once! 

uo No further show or need for that old coat. 

You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while 
How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! 
A second, and the angels alter that. 
Well, I could never write a verse, — could you? 

•15 Let's to the Prado and make the most of time. 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 

I AM poor brother Lippo, by your leave! 

You need not clap yoiu* torches to my face. 

Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! 

What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, 

And here you catch me at an alley's end 

Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 201 

The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, 

Do, — harry out, if you must show your zeal, 

Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole. 

And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, i< 

Wcke, wekc, that's crept to keep him company! 

Alia, you know your betters! Then, you'll take 

Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat. 

And please to know me likewise. Who am I ? 

Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend is 

Three streets off — he's a certain . . . how d'ye call ? 

JNJaster — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici, 

r the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! 

Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, 

How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! 20 

But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves 

Pick up a manner nor discredit you: 

Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets 

And count fair prize what comes into their net ? 

He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! 25 

Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. 

Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go 

Drink out this quarter-florin to the health 

Of the munificent House that harbours me 

(And many more beside, lads! more beside!) so 

And all's come square again. I'd like his face — 

His, elbowing on his comrade in the door 

With the pike and lantern, — for the slave that holds 

John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 

With one hand C'l.ook you, now," as who should say) 35 

And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! 

It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk. 



202 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! 

Yes, I'm the painter, since you style nic so. 
40 What, brother I^ippo's doings, up and down, 

You know them and they take you? like enough! 

I saw the proper twinkle in your eye — 

"Fell you, I liked your looks at very first. 

I^et's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. 
45 Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands 

To roam the town and sing out carnival, 

And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, 

A-{)ainting for the great nuin, saints and saints 

And saints again. I could not paint all night — 
60 Out"! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 

There came a hurry of feet and little feet, 

A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song, — 

F/oivcr o' the broom, 

Take airaf/ love, and our earth is a tomb! 
f'S Flourr o' the quinee, 

I let Lisa go, and what good in life sinee? 

Flower o' the thi/me — and so on. Round they went. 

Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter 

Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight, — three slim 
shapes, 
io And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and 
blood. 

That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, 

Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, 

All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots. 

There was a ladder! Down I let myself, 
05 Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, 

And after them. I came up with the fun 



FKA LIPl'O LIPPI 20.3 

Hard by Saint liaurciuc, hail IVllow , well mrt, — 
Flower o' the ro.sr. 

If r vc been mcrrij, wJiai matter who Joiowsf 
Aiul so as I was stealing back again to 

To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 
Kre T rise up to-morrow and go work 
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast 
\Villi his great round stone to subdue (he flesh, 
^'ou snap me of the sudden. Ah, 1 see! 7ft 

Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your licad — 
Mine's shaved — a monk, you say — the sting's in thatl 
If Master Cosimo amiounced himself. 
Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! 

(^ome, what am I a bear.t for? tell us, novv I no 

T was a baby when my mother died 
And father died and left me in the stre(>t. 
I starved (here, (lod knows how, a y(>ar or two 
On fig-skins, melon- j)a rings, rinds and shucks, 
Refuse an<l rubbish. One fine frosty day, »5 

My stoma t'h being empty as your hat. 
The wind doubled me up and dovvii I went. 
Old Aunt Laj)ac'cia trussed me \\\{\\ one hai.d, 
(Its fellow was a. stit!j';er as I knew) 

And so along the wall, over the bridge, so 

By the straight cut to \]\v convent. J^ix anohIs there. 
While I slood munehipg my first bread that month: 
"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father 
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas n^fection-time,— 
"To (juii this very miserable world? ,>5 

Will yon renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" 
tlKJUiHit I; 



204 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

By no means! Brief, they made a m6nk of me; 
I did renounce the world, its })ride and greed. 
Palace, farm, villa, shop and banking-house, 

100 Trash, such as these poor devils of INIedici 

Have given their hearts to — all at eight years old. 
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 
'Twas not for nothing — the good bellyful. 
The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, 

^^^ And day-long blessed idleness beside! 

"Let's see what the urchin's fit for" — that came next. 
Not overmuch their way, I must confess. 
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books; 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! 

110 J ^ lower o' the elove, 

All the Latin I construe is, ''avio" I love! 
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets 
Eight years together, as my fortune was. 
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling 

ii3 The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, 
And who will curse or kick him for his pains, — 
Which gentleman processional and fine, 
Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch 

120 The droppings of the wax to sell again, 

Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped, — 
How say I ? — nay, which dog bites, which lets drop 
His bone from the heap of oiTal in the street, — 
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, 

125 Pie learns the look of things, and none the less 
T)T admonition from the hunger-pinch. 
y iiad 9 store of such remarks, be sure, 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 205 

Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. 

I (h'ew men's faces on my copy-books, 

Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, lao 

Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, 

Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, 

And made a string of pictures of the world 

Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, 

On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked 135 

black. 
**Nay," quoth the Prior, ''turn him out, d'ye say? 
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. 
What if at last we get our man of parts. 
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese 

And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine i^o 

And put the front on it that ought to be!" 
And hereupon ho bade me daub away. 
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, 
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First, every sort of monk, the black and white, 145 

I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at churcli, 
From good old gossips waiting to confess 
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,- - 
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot. 
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there iso 

With the little children round liim in a row 
Of admiration, half for his beard and half 
For that white anger of his victim's son 
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, 
Signing himself with the other because of Christ «h. 

(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 
After the passion of a thousaJTlrJ >eii-J 



206 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNINu 

Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, 
("Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve 

»oo On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf. 
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers 
(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. 
I painted all, then cried *"Tis ask and have; 
"Choose, for more's ready!" — laid the ladder flat, 

165 And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud 
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, 
Being simple bodies, — "That's the very man! 
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! 

170 That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 
To care about his asthma: it's the life!" 
But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; 
Their betters took their turn to see and say: 
The Prior and the learned pulled a face 

175 And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here' 
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us ah! 
Faces, arms, legs and bodies like the true 
As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! 
Your business is not to catch men with show, 
>*oWith homage to the perishable clay, 
But lift them over it, ignore it all. 
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. 
Your business is to paint the souls of men — 
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . . 

ws It's vapour done up like a new-born babe — 

(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) 
It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! 
Give us no more of body than shows soul! 



FUA LIPPO LIPPI 207 

Here's Giotto, with his Saint ii-praising God, 

That sets us praising, — wliy not stop with him ? i9o 

Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head 

With wonder at Hues, colours, and what not? 

Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! 

Rub all out, try at it a second time. 

Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, las 

She's just my niece . . . Ilerodias, I would say, — 

Who went and danced and got men's heads cut oil"! 

Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask? 

A fine way to paint soul, by painting body 

So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further 200 

And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white 

When what you put for yellow's simply black, 

And any sort of meaning looks intense 

W1ien all beside itself means and looks naught. 

Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, 5?os 

Left foot and right foot, go a double step, 

Make his flesh likcr and his soul more like. 

Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, 

The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is it so pretty 

You can't discover if it means hope, fear, ^^^ 

Sorrow or joy ? won't beauty go with these ? 

Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, 

Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash. 

And then add soul and heighten them three-fold ? 

Or say there's beauty with no soul at all — 215 

(I never saw it — put the case the same — ) 

If you get simple beauty and naught else, 

V^ou get about the best thing God invents: 

That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed. 



208 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

./« Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 

**Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short. 
And so the thing has gone on ever since. 
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: 
You should not take a fellow eight years old 

225 And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
I'm my own master, paint now as I please — 
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house ! 
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front — 
Those great rings serve more purposes than just 

230 To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 

And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work. 
The heads shake still — ''It's art's decline, my son! 
You're not of the true painters, great and old; 

235 Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; 
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: 
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" 
Flower ci the pine, 
You keep your misfr . . . manners, and Fll stick to m\ 

240 I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! 
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, 
They with their Latin ? So, I swallow my rage, 
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint . 
To please them — sometimes do and sometimes don't; 

245 For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints — 
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world — 
{Flower o' the peach, 
Death for 2is all, and his own life for each!) 

250 And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 



FRA LIPPO LIPPT 209 

The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, 

And I do these wild things in sheer despite, 

And play the fooleries you catch me at, 

In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass 

After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, 255 

Although the miller does not preach to him 

The only good of grass is to make chaff. 

What would men have ? Do they like grass or no — 

May they or mayn't they ? all I want's the thing 

Settled forever one way. As it is, 260 

You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: 

You don't like what you only like too much, 

You do like what, if given you at your word 

You find abundantly detestable. 

For me, I think I speak as I was taught; ?ti5 

I always see the garden and God there 

A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned. 

The value and significance of flesh, 

I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 



You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. 270 

But see, now — why, I see as certainly 
As that the morning-star's about to shine, 
What will hap some day. We've a youngster here 
Cornes to our convent, studies what I do. 
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: ^75 

His name is Guidi — he'll not mind the monks — 
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk^ 
He picks my practice up — he'll paint apace. 
I hope so — though I never live so long, 



210 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

280 I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! 
You speak no Latin more than I, belike; 
However, you're my man, you've seen the world 
—The beauty and the wonder and the power, 
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades 

285 Changes, surprises, — and God made it all! 
— For what ? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, 
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, 
The mountain round it and the sky above, 
jNIuch more the figures of man, woman, child, 

290 These arc the frame to ? What's it all about ? 
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, 
Wondered at ? oh, this last of course ! — you say. 
But why not do as well as say, — paint these 
Just as they are, careless what comes of it ? 

295 God's works — paint any one, and count it crime 
To let a truth slip. Don't object, ''His works 
Are here already; nature is complete: 
Suppose you reproduce her — (which you can't) 
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then." 

500 For, don't you mark ? we're made so that we love 
First when we see them painted, things we have passe< 
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; 
And so they are better, painted — better to us. 
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; 

305 God uses us to help each other so. 

Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now. 
Your cuUion's hanging face ? A bit of chalk. 
And trust me but you should, though! How much more 
If I drew higher things with the same truth! 

310 That were to take the r*r\o^\ pulpit-place, 



FRA LIPPO LIPPI 211 

Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, 

It makes me mad to see what men shall do 

And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, 

Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: 

To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 

"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" 

Strikes in the Prior: ''when your meaning's plain 

It does not say to folk — remember matins. 

Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this 

AVhat need of art at all ? A skull and bones. 

Two bits of stick nailed crosswise,^ or, what's best, 

A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. 

X painted a Saint Laurence six months since 

At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: 

"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" 

I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns — 

"xAlready not one phiz of your three slaves 

Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, 

But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, 

The pious people have so eased their own 

With coming to say prayers there in a rage: 

We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 

Expect another job this time next year. 

For pity and religion grow^ i' the crowd — 

Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools! 

— That is — you'll not mistake an idle wo^'d 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, 
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns 
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! 
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! 



212 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

It's natural a poor monk out of bounds 

Should have his apt word to excuse himself: 

And hearken how I plot to make amends. 

I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece 
345 . . . There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see 

Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! 

They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint 

God in the midst, INIadonna and her babe, 

Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, 
^•'^ I^ilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 

As puff on puff of grated orris-root 

When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. 

And then i' the front, of course a saint or two — 

Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, 
355 Saint xAjnbrose, who puts down in black and white 

The convent's friends and gives them a long day, 

x\nd Job, I must have him there past mistake. 

The man of Uz (and Us without the z. 

Painters who need his patience). Well, all these 
360 Secured at their devotion, up shall come 

Out of a corner when you least expect, 

As one by a dark stair into a great light, 

Music and talking, who but Tippo! I! — 

Mazed, motionless and moonstruck — I'm the man! 
365 Back I shrink — what is this I see and hear? 

I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake. 

My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, 

I, in this presence, this pure company! 

Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? 
370 Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 

Foward, puts out a soft palm — ''Not so fast'*' 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 213 

— Addresses the celestial presence, ''nay — 

He made you and devised you, after all. 

Though he's none of you ! Could Saint John there draw — ■ 

His camel-hair make up a painting-brush ? 375 

We come to brother Lippo for all that, 

I sic perfecit opus!'' So, all smile — 

I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 

Under the cover of a hundred wings 

Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay 38o 

And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, 

Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 

The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off 

To some safe bench behind, not letting go 

The palm of her, the little lily thing 385 

That spoke the good word for me in the nick. 

Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say. 

And so all's saved for me, and for the church 

A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! 

Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! 300 

The street's hushed, and I know my own way back. 

Don't fear me! There's the gray beginning. Zooks! 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 

(called *'the faultless painter") 

But do not let us quarrel any more. 

No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: 

Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 

You turn your face, but does it bring your heart ? 

I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear. 



214 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Treat his own subject after his own way, 
Fix his own time, accept too his own price, 
And shut the money into this small hand 
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? 
Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow, Love! 
I often am much wearier than you think, 
This evening more than usual, and it seems 
As if — forgive now — should you let me sit 
Here by the window with your hand in mine 
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 
Both of one mind, as married people use. 
Quietly, quietly the evening through, 
I might get up to-morrow to my work 
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for thio! 
Your soft hand is a woman of itself, 
And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. 
Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve 
For each of the five pictures we require: 
It saves a model. So! keep looking so — 
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! 
— How could you ever prick those perfect ears, 
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet — 
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, 
Which everybody looks on and calls his, 
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, 
While she looks — no one's: very dear, no less.- 
You smile ? why, there's my picture ready made, 
There's what we painters call our harmony! 
A common grayness silvers everything, — 
All in a twilight, you and I alike 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 215 

—You, at the point of your first pride in me 
(That's gone you know),— but I, at every point; 
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down 
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 
There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; 
That length of convent-wall across the way 
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; 
The last monk leaves the garden ; days decrease, 
And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 
Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape 
As if I saw alike my work and self 
And all that I was born to be and do, 
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. 
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead; 
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! 
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! 
This chamber for example — turn your head- 
All that's behind us ! You don't undertsand 
Nor care to understand about my art, 
But you can hear at least when people speak: 
And that cartoon, the second from the door 
—It is the thing. Love! so such things should be— 
Behold Madonna!— I am bold to say. 
I can do with my pencil what I know. 
What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
Do easily, too— when I say, perfectly, 
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, 
^Vho listened to the Legate's talk last week, 
And just as much they used to say in France. 
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! 



216 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past : 
I do wliat many dream of, all their lives, 

70 — Dream? strive to do, and agoni/e to do, 
And fail in doing. I eould count twenty such 
On twice your fingers, and not k^ave this town, 
W'ho strive — you don't know how the others strive 
To paint a little thing like tliat you smeared 

75 Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 
Yet do nuich less, so nuich less, Someone says, 
(I know his name, no matter) — so much less! 
Well, less is more, Lucre:^ia : I am judged. 
There burns a truer light of Gotl in them, 

80 In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, 
Heart, or whate'er else, tlian goes on to prompt 
This low-pulsed fortliright craftsman's hand of mine. 
Their woi'ks drop groundward, but themselves, I know, 
j\each many a tinu' a heaven that's shut to me, 

8t Knter and take their place there sure enough, 
Though they eonu' back and cannot tell the w^orld. 
My works are nearer lieaven, but 1 sit here. 
The sudcU'n blood of these nu'u ! at a word — 
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. 

^ T, painting from myself and to myself. 

Know what 1 do, am unmoved by men's blame 
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks 
]\lorello's outline there is wrongly traced. 
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, 

95 Kightly traced and well ordered ; what of that ? 
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? 
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, 
Or w^hat's a heaven for? All is silver-gray 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 217 

Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! 

I know both what I want and wh;it might gain, 

And yvt liow profitless to know, to sigh 

"Had I been two, another and myself, 

Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. 

Vonder's a work now, of that famous youth 

'I'he Urbinate who died five years ago. 

('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) 

Well, I can fancy how he did it all. 

Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, 

Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, 

Above and through his art — for it gives way; 

That arm is wrongly put — and there again — 

A fault to j)ardon in the drawing's lines. 

Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, 

He means right — that, a child may understand. 

Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: 

But all the play, the insight and the stretch^- 

Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? 

Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul. 

We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! 

Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 

More than I merit, yes, by many times. 

But had you — oh, Avith the same ]:)erfect brow. 

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, 

And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 

I'he fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 

Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! 

Some w^omen do so. Had the mouth there urged 

"(Jod and the glory! never care for gain. 

The present by the future, what is that ? 



218 SELECTJOJN^ Jb ROM BROWNING 

^^^ Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 

Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" 

I might have done it for you. So it seems: 

Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. 

Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; 
135 The rest avail not. Why do I need you? 

What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 

In this world, who can do a thing, will not; 

And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: 

Yet the will's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — 
1^0 And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 

God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 

'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict. 

That I am something underrated here. 

Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. 
"& I dared not, do you know, leave home all day. 

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 

The best is when tliey pass and look aside; 

But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. 

Well may they speak I That Francis, that first time, 
150 And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! 

I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. 

Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 

In that humane great monarch's golden look, — 

One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
155 Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, 

One arm about my shoulder, round my neck. 

The jingle of liis gold chain in my ear, 

I painting proudly with his breath on me, 

All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, 
i8« Such frank French eves, and such a fire of souls 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 219 

Profuse, my hand kept ])lyins by those hearts, — 

And, best of all, this, this, this faee beyond, 

This in the background, waiting on my work, 

1\) erown the issue with a last reward! 

A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? lea 

And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — 

'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinet said; 

Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, 

And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt 

Out of the grange whose four walls make his woild. j7g 

How eould it v\u\ in any other way? 

You called me, and I came home to your heart. 

The triumph was — to reach and stay there; since 

I reached it ere the trium})h, what is lost? 

Let my haiuls frame your face in your hair's gold, 175 

You beautiful lyucrezia that are mine! 

** Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; 

The Roman's is the better when you pray, 

But still the other's Virgin was his wife — " 

]Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge wo 

Both pictures in yoiu' presence; clearer grows 

]\Iy better fortune, I resolve to think. 

For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 

Said one day Agnolo, his very self, 

To Rafael ... I have known it all these years , , iss 

(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts 

Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, 

Too lifted up in heart because of it) 

"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub 

Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, iso 

Who, were he set to j)lan and execute 



220 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, 

Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours 1" 

To llafael's! — And indeed the arm is wrong. 
195 I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, 

Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go I 

Ay. but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! 

Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, 

(What he ? why, who but IMichel Agnolo ? 
200 Do you forget already words like those?) 

If really there was such a chance, so lost, — 

Is, whether you're — not grateful — but more j)leased. 

Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! 

This hour has been an hour! Another smile? 
>« If you would sit thus by me every night 

I should work better, do you comprehend ? 

I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 

See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; 

Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall. 
210 The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 

Come from tlie window, love, — come in, at last, 

Inside the melancholy little house 

We built to be so gay with. Clod is just. 

King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights 
215 When I look up from painting, eyes tired out. 

The walls become illumined, brick from brick 

Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. 

That gold of his I did cement them with! 

T^et us but love each other. Must you go? 
230 That Cousin here again? he waits outside? 

Must see you — you, and not with me? Those loans? 

More gaming tlebts to J^ay? yon smiled for that? 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 221 

Well, let smiles buy ine! have you more to spend? 

Wliile luuul {uhI eye and something of a heart 

Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth ? 225 

I'll pay my faney. Only let me sit 

The gray remainder of the evening out, 

Idle, you call it, and muse perfeetly 

Mow I could paint, were I but back in LVance, 

One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face, 230 

Not yours this time! I want you at my side 

To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 

Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 

Will you ? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. 

I take the subjects for his corridor, 231 

Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there, 

And throw him in another thing or two 

If he demurs; the whole should prove enough 

To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, 

What's better and what's all I care about, 24c 

Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! 

Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, 

Tlu* Cousin ! what does he to please you more ? 

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. 
I regret little, I would change still less. 245 

Since there my past life lies, why alter it? 
The very wrong to Francis! — it is true 
I took his coin, was tempted and complied. 
And built this house and sinned, and all is said. 
My father and my mother died of want. 250 

Well, had I riches of my own ? you see 
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. 



222 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: 
And I have laboured somewhat in my time 

255 And not been paid profusely. Some good son 
Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try! 
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, 
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. 
This must suffice me here. What would one have ? 

^^ In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance— 
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 
Meted on each side by the angel's reed. 
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me 
To cover — the three first without a wife, 

865 While I have mine! So — still they overcome 
Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. 

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT 
SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH 

Rome, 15 — 

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! 

Draw round my bed : is Anselm keeping back ? 

Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well— 

She, men would have to be your mother once, 

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! 

What's done is done, and she is dead beside^ 

Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB 223 

And as she died so must we die ourselves, 

And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. 

Life, how and what is it ? As here I lie lo 

In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 

Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask 

''Do I live, am I dead?'' Peace, peace seems all. 

Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; 

And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought c 

VV'ith tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: 

— Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; 

Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South 

He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! 

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 20 

One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side. 

And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats. 

And up into the aery dome where iive 

The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: 

And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, » 

And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest. 

With those nine columns round me, two and two, 

The odd one at my feet w^here Anselm stands: 

Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe 

As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. » 

— Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone. 

Put me where I may look at him ! True peach, 

Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! 

Draw close: that conflagration of my church 

— What then ? So much was saved if aught were missed I 35 

My sons, ye would not be my death ? Go dig 

The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood. 

Drop water gently till the surface sink, 



224 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, II . , 
40 Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft. 
And corded up in a tight olive-frail, 
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli, 
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, 
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . 
45 Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, 
That brave Frascati villa with its bath, 
So, let the blue lump poise between my knees. 
Like God the Father's globe on both his hands 
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, 
50 For Gandolf shall not chose but see and burst! 
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: 
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he ? 
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons ? Black — 
'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How^ else 
55 Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? 
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, 
Those Pan and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance 
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so. 
The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, 
60 Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 

Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off. 
And Moses with the tables . . . but I know 
Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, 
Child of my bowels, Anselm ? Ah, ye hope 
65 To revel down my villas while I gasp 

Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine 
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! 
Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, then ! 
'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve 



THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB 225 

My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 7o 

One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, 

There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world — 

And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray 

Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, 

And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs ? 75 

— That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, 

Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, 

No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line — 

Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his need ! 

And then how I shall lie through centuries, so 

And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, 

And see God made and eaten all day long, 

And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste 

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! 

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, ^ 

Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 

I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, 

And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, 

And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop 

Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work : so 

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts 

Grow% with a certain humming in my ears. 

About the life before I lived this life. 

And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, 

Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, 95 

Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes. 

And new-found agate urns as fresh as day. 

And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, 

— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? 

No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! 100 



226 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Evil and brief luitli been my pilgrimage. 
All /rt/;/,s', all, sons! Else I give the Pope 
My villas ! Will ye ever eat my heart ? 
Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, 

105 They glitter like yoin* mother's for my soul, 
Or ye would heighten" my impoverished frieze, 
Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase 
With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, 
And to the tri{)od ye would tie a lynx 

110 That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, 
■^Fo comfort me on my entablature 
Wliereon I am to lie till I must ask 
"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! 
For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 

i\5 To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it! Stone — 
Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat 
As if the corpse they keep were oozing through — 
And no more lapis to delight the world! 
W^ell go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, 

120 But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 
— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 
And leave me in my church, the church for peace, 
That I may watch at leisure if he leers — 
Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone, 

125 As still he envied me, so fair she was! 



CLEON 227 

CLEON 

"As certain also of your own poets have said" — 

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, 

Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, 

And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps 

"Greece") — 
To Protus in his Tyranny: much health! 

They give thy letter to me, even now: 
I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. 
The master of thy galley still unlades 
Gift after gift; they block my court at last 
And pile themselves along its portico 
Royal w^ith sunset, like a thought of thee: 
And one wdiite she-slave from the group dispersed 
Of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work 
Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, 
Now covered with this settle-down of doves), 
One lyric woman, in her crocus vest 
Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands 
(^ommends to me the strainer and the cup 
Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine. 

Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! 
For so shall men remark, in such an act 
Of love for him wdiose song gives life its joy. 
Thy recognition of the use of life; 
Nor call thy spirit barely adequate 
To help on life in straight ways, broad enough 



228 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

25 For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. 
Thou, in the daily building of thy tower, — 
Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, 
Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, 
Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim 

30 Clhnbed with the eye to cheer the architect, — 
Didst ne'er engage in work for mere woi'k's sake 
Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope 
Of some eventual rest a-top of it. 
Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, 

35 Thou first of men mightst look out to the East. 
The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. 
For this, I promise on thy festival 
To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, 
Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak 

40 Thy great words, and describe thy royal face — 
Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most. 
Within the eventual element of calm. 

Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. 
It is as thou hast heard: in one short life 

45 I, Cleon, have effected all those things 
Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. 
That epos on thy hundred plates of gold 
Is mine, — and also mine the little chant. 
So sure to rise from every fishing-bark 

50 Wlien, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. 
The image of the sun-god on the phare. 
Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; 
The Poecile, over-storied its whole length. 
As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. 



CLEON 229 

I know the true proportions of a man ss 

And woman also, not observed before; 

And I have written three books on the soul, 

Proving absurd all written hitherto, 

And putting us to ignorance again. 

For music, — why, I have combined the moods, eo 

Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; 

Thus much the people know and recognize, 

Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not. 

We of these latter days, with greater mind 

Than our forerunners, since more composite, 65 

Look not so great, beside their simple way, 

To a judge who only sees one way at once. 

One mind-point and no other at a time, — 

Compares the small part of a man of us 

With some whole man of the heroic age, 7o 

Great in his way — not ours, nor meant for ours. 

And ours is greater, had we skill to know: 

For, what we call this life of men on earth. 

This sequence of the soul's achievements here 

Being, as I find much reason to conceive, 76 

Intended to be viewed eventually 

As a great whole, not analyzed to parts. 

But each part having reference to all, — 

How shall a certain part, pronounced complete. 

Endure effacement by another part ? so 

Was the thing done ? — then, what's to do again ? 

See, in the chequered pavement opposite, 

Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb. 

And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid — 

He did not overlay them, superimpose ^^ 



230 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

The new upon the old and blot it out, 

But laid them on a level in his work, 

INIaking at last a picture; there it lies. 

So, first the perfect separate forms were made, 
^ The portions of mankind; and after, so, 

Occurred the combination of the same. 

For where had been a progress, otherwise? 

Mankind, made up of all the single men, — 

In such a synthesis the labour ends. 
95 Now mark me ! those divine men of old time 

Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point 

The outside verge that rounds our faculty; 

And where they reached, who can do more than reach 

It takes but little water just to touch 
100 At some one point the inside of a sphere. 

And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest 

In due succession: but the finer air 

Which not so pal})ably nor obviously. 

Though no less universally, can touch 
105 The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, 

Fills it more fully than the water did; 

Holds thrice the weight of water in itself 

Resolved into a subtler element. 

And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full 
110 Up to the visible height — and after, void; 

Not knowing air's more hidden properties. 

And thus oul* soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus 

To vindicate his purpose in our life: 

Why stay we on the earth unless to grow ? 
115 Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, ^ 

That he or other god descended here 



f.2« 



CLEON 231 

And, once for all, showed simultaneously 

What, in its nature, never can be shown, 

Piecemeal or in succession; — showed, I say, 

The worth both absolute and relative 

Of all his children from the birth of time. 

His instruments for all appointed work. 

I now go on to image, — might we hear 

The judgment which should give the due to each, 

Show where the labour lay and where the ease, 12s 

And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere! 

This is a dream: — but no dream, let us hope. 

That years and days, the summers and the springs, 

Follow each other with unwaning powers. 

The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far, "o 

Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; 

The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; 

The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; 

The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; 

That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave, ji3& 

Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds. 

Refines upon the women of my youth. 

What, and the soul alone deteriorates ? 

T have not chanted verse like Homer, no — 

Nor swept string like Terpander, no — nor carved ^'^0 

And painted men like Phidias and his friend: 

I am not great as they are, point by point. 

But I have entered into sympathy 

With these four, running these into one soul, 

Who, separate, ignored each other's art. 545 

Say, is it nothing that I know them all ? 

The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed 



232 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Rose-blood upon its petals, prick'd its cup's 
Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, 

150 And show a better flower if not so large: 
I stand myself. Refer this to the gods 
Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare 
(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext 
That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, 

155 Discourse of lightly or depreciate ? 

It might have fallen to another's hand : what then ? 
I pass too surely: let at least truth stay! 

And next, of what thou followest on to ask. 
This being wdth me as I declare, O king, 

160 My works, in all these varicoloured kinds. 
So done by me, accepted so by men — 
Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) 
I must not be accounted to attain 
The very crown and proper end of life ? 

165 Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, 
I face death with success in my right hand: 
Whether I fear death less than dost thyself 
The fortunate of men? **For" (writest thou) 
"Thou lea vest much behind, while I leave naught. 

170 Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing. 
The pictures men shall study; w^hile my Hfe, 
Complete and whole now^ in its power and joy. 
Dies altogether with my brain and arm. 
Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? 

175 The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave. 
Set on the promontory which I named. 
And that — some supple courtier of my heir 



CLEON 233 

Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps, 

To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. 

I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!" iso 

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. 
Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse 
Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief. 
That admiration grows as knowledge grows ? 
That imperfection means perfection hid, iss 

Reserved in part, to grace the after-time? 
If, in the morning of philosophy. 
Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived. 
Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked 
On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, i^o 

Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage — 
Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced 
The perfectness of others yet unseen. 
Conceding which, — had Zeus then questioned thee 
"Shall I go on a step, improve on this, *^* 

Do more for visible creatures than is done?" 
Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each 
Grow conscious in himself — by that alone. 
All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock. 
The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims 200 
And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, 
Till life's mechanics can no further go — 
And all this joy in natural life is put 
Like fire from off thy finger into each, 

So exquisitely perfect is the same. 208 

But 'tis pure fire, and they mere matter are; 
It has them, not they it: and so I choose 



234 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

For man, thy last premeditated work 
(If I might add a glory to the scheme) 

210 That a third thing should stand apart from both, 
A quality arise within his soul, 
Which, intro-active, made to supervise 
And feel the force it has, may view itself. 
And so be happy." Man might live at first 

215 The animal life : but is there nothing more ? 
In due time, let him critically learn 
How he lives; and, the more he gets to know 
Of his own life's adaptabilities, 
The more joy-giving will his life become. 

220 Thus man, who hath this quality, is best. 

But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: 
"Let progress end at once, — man make no step 
Beyond the natural man, the better beast. 
Using his senses, not the sense of sense." 

225 In man there's failure, only since he left 
The lo ver and inconscious forms of life. 
We called it an advance, the rendering plain 
Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life. 
And, by new lore so added to the old, 

230 Take each step higher over the brute's head. 
This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, 
Which whole surrounding flats of natural life 
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; 

335 A tower that crowns a country. But alas, 
The soul now climbs it just to perish there! 
For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream— 



CLEON 235 y 

"We know this, which we had not else perceived) 

That there's a world of capability 

For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, 240 

Inviting us; and still the soul craves all, 

And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more 

Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! 

Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought 

Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge 245 

Our bounded physical recipiency, 

Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, 

Repair the waste of age and sickness: no, 

It skills not! life's inadequate to joy. 

As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take 2W 

They praise a fountain in my garden here 

Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow 

Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. 

What if I told her, it is just a thread 

From that great river which the hills shut up, 25£ 

And mock her with my leave to take the same ? 

The artificer has given her one small tube 

Past power to widen or exchange — what boots 

To know she might spout oceans if she could ? 

She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread: 2«o 

And so a man can use but a man's joy 

While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast, 

''See. man, how happy I live, and despair — 

That I may be still happier — for thy use!" 

If this were so, we could not thank our Lord, zes 

As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so — 

Malice it is not. Is it carelessness ? 

Still, no. If care — where is the sign ? I ask, 



236 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And get no answer, and agree in sum, 
270 O king, with thy profound discouragement, 

Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. 
Most progress is most faihire: thou sayest well. 

The last point now: — thou dost except a case — 
Holding joy not impossible to one 

275 With artist-gifts — to such a man as I 

Who leave behind me living works indeed; 
Foi*, such a poem, such a painting lives. 
What? dost thou verily trip upon a word, 
Confound the accurate view of what joy is 

280 (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) 

With feeling joy ? confound the knowing how 
And showing how to live (my faculty) 
With actually living ? — Otherwise 
Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? 

285 Because in my great epos I display 

How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act- 
Is this as though I acted ? if I paint. 
Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young? 
Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself 

290 The many years of pain that taught me art! 
Indeed, to know is something, and to prove 
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: 
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too. 
Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, 

295 Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. 

I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode. 

I get to sing of love, when grown too gray 

For being beloved: she turns to that young man, 



CLEON 237 

The muscles all a-ripple on his back. 

I know the joy of kingship: well, tlioii art king! ^^ 

"But," sayest thou — (and I marvel, I repeat, 
To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what 
Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: 
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, 
And iEschylus, because we read his plays!" '^^ 

Why, if they live still, let them come and take 
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup. 
Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive? 
Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, 
In this, that every day my sense of joy 3i° 

Grows more acute, my soul (intensified 
By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; 
While every day my hairs fall more and more, 
]\Iy hand shakes, and the heavy years increase — 
The horror quickening still from year to year, sis 

The consummation coming past escape 
When I shall know^ most, and yet least enjoy — 
When all my works wherein I prove my worth. 
Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, 
Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, 320 

I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, 
The man who loved his life so over-much, 
Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, 
I dare at times imagine to my need 
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, 325 

Unlimited in capability 
For joy, as this is in desire for joy, 
—To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: 



^■66 SELECTIOI^S FROM BROWJNIJNG 

That, stung b^ ^traitness of our life, made strait 
tso ( )ii purpose to make prized the life at large — 

Freed by the throbbing impulse we eall death, 

We burst there as the worm into the fly, 

Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But nol 

Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, 
*35 Ho must have done so, were it possible' 

Live long and hapj)y, and in that thought die: 

Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, 

I eannot tell thy messenger aright 

Where to deliver what he bears of thine 
wo To one ealled Paulus; we have heard his fame 

Indeed, if Christus be not one with him 

I know not, nor am troubled much to know. 

Thou canst not thiidv a mere barbarian Jew, 

As Paulus j^roves to be, one cireumeised, 
8« I lath access to a secret shut from us? 

Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king. 

In stooping to inquire of such an one, 

As if his answer could impose at all! 

I le writeth, doth he ? well, and he may write. 
«o Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves 

Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; 

And (as I gathered from a bystander)' 

Their doctrine could be held by no sane man. 



ONE WORD MORE 239 

ONE WORD MORE 



There thoy arc, my (ifly mhmi jmkI women 
Njimiii<jj \uv i\\v (il'ty poems (uusIkmI ! 
Take thein, Love, llie l)()ok and me lo<;ctlier: 
Where tlie iv^arl lies, let (lie brain lie also. 



Rafael iiiado a century of sonnets, 

Made and wrote them in a certain volume 

Dinted with the silver-pointcnl |)en('il 

Else he only used to draw Madoimas: 

These, the world might view — hut one, the volume. 

Who that one, you ask? Vour heart instructs you. 

Did she live and love it all her life-time? 

Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets. 

Die, and let it droj) beside hrr f)illow 

W^here it lay in place of Rafael's glory, 

Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving — 

Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, 

Rafael's check, her love had turned a poet's? 



HI 



You and I would rather read that volume, 
(Taken to his beating bosom by it) 
Lean and list the bosom-lx'ats of Rafael, 
Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas — 



240 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNliNG 

I lor, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, 
Her, that visits Florenee in a vision, 
Her, that's left with liHes in the Louvre — 
25 Seen bv us and all the world in eirele. 



IV 



You and 1 will never read that volume. 

Guido Keni, like his own eye's apple 

Guarded long the treasure-hook and loved it. 

Guido Keni dying, all Bologna 

Cried, and the world eried too, "Ours, the treasure 

Suddenly, as lare things will, it vanished. 



Dante once prepared to paint an angel: 
Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." 
While he mused and traced it and retraced it, 
(Peradventure with a pen corroded 
Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for. 
When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, 
Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, 
Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, 
Loosed him, laughed to see the writing raidvle, 
Let the wretch go festering through Florence)— 
Dante, who loved well because he hated, 
Hated wickedness that hinders loving, 
Dante standing, studying his angel, — 
In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 
Says he — "Certain people of importance" 



ONI- WORD MORE 2 

(Such he gave liis daily dreadful line to) 
"Kutered and would seize, forsooth, tlie jioet." 
Says the poet— "Theu 1 stopped my painting." 



You and T would rather see that angel, 50 

Painted by the tenderness of Dante, 
Would we not? — tiian read a fresh Inferno. 

VII 

You and 1 will never see that picture. 

"Wliiki he mused on love and Beatrice, 

While he softened o'er Ids outlined angel, 55 

In they broke, those "i)(>o])le of importance:" 

We and Bice bear tlie loss for ever. 



vm 

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? 
This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not 
Once, and only once, and for one only, eo 

(Ah, the prize!) to find his love n language 
Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — 
Using nature that's an art to others, 
Not, this one time, art that's lurned his natui'e. 
Ay, of all the artists living, loving, 65 

None but would forego his i)i'oper dowry, — 
Does he paint? he fain would writer a poem, — 
Does he write? he fain would pjdnt a picture, 



242 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Put to proof art alien to the artist's, 
/o Once, and only once, and for one only, 
So to be the msn and leave he artist. 
Gain the ma.n s joy, miss the artist's sorrov^. 



»". 



Wherefore? Heaven's srift takes earth's abatementi 
He who smites the rock and spreads the water, 

75 Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him. 
Even he, the minute makes immortal, 
Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute. 
Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. 
While he smites, how can he but remember, 

80 So he smote before, in such a peril, 

When they stood and mocked — ''Shall smiting help us?" 
When they ^'•ank and sneered — "A stroke is easy!" 
When they wipt:;d their mouths and went their journey, 
Throwing him for thanks — *'But drought was pleasant '' 

85 Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; 
Thus the doing savours of disrelish; 
Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; 
O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate. 
Carelessness or consciousness — the gesture. 

10 For he bears an ancient wrong about him. 
Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, 
Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude — 
"How shouldst thou, o^ all men, smite, and save us! 
Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — 

»5*' Egypt's flesh-pots — nay, the drought was better. 



ONE WORD MORL 243 

X 



Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant ' 
I'heirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven briUianc?^ 
Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiaTi 
Never dares the man put off the prophet. 



XI 



Did he love one face from out the thousi ndsf, 
(Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, 
Were she but the Ethiopian bondslave,) 
He would envy yon dumb patient camel, 
Keeping a reserve of scanty water 
Meant to save his own life in the desert; 
Ready in the desert to deliver 
(Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) 
Hoard and life together for his mistress. 



XII 



i shall never, in the years remainii.g, 

Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you stataes, 

INIake you music that should all-express me; 

So it seems: I stand on my attainment. 

This of verse alone, one life allows me; 

Verse and nothing else have I to give you. 

Other heights in other lives, God willing: 

Ail the gifts from all the heis^hrs, your own, Li v^e! 



ikS« 



. 244 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

XIII 

Yet a semblance of resource avails us — 

Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. 

Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, 

120 Lines I write the first time and the last time. 
He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, 
Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly. 
Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little. 
Makes a strange art of an art familiar, 

125 Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. 

He who blows thro' bronze, may breathe thro' silver. 

Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. 

He who writes, may write for once as I do. 



XIV 



Love, you saw me gather men and women, 
Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, 
Enter each and all, and use their service. 
Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a poem. 
Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, 
Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: 
I am mine and yours-^the rest be all men's, 
Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. 
Let me speak this once in my true person. 
Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, 
Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: 
Pray you, look on these my men and women, 
Take and keep my fifty poems finished; 
Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! 
Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. 



ONE WORD MORE 245 



XV 



Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! 

Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 

Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. 

Curving on a sky imbrued with colour, 

Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, 

Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. 
Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, 
Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, 
Perfect till the nightingales applauded. 
Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, 
Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofL, 
Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, 
Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. 



xvr 



What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? 
Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal. 
Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), 
All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos). 
She would turn a new side to her mortal,' 
Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman- 
Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, 
Blind to Galileo on his turret. 
Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats— him, even! 
Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal— 
When she turns round, comes again in heaven, 
Opens out anew for worse or better! 
Proves she like some portent of an iceberg 



148 



150 



160 



16i 



246 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

J70 Swimming full upon the ship it founders, 

Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals ? 
Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire 
Seen by Closes when he climbed the mountain ? 
Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu 

"•'' Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, 
Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. 
Like the bodied heaven in his Nearness 
Shone the stone, the sap])hire of that paved work. 
When they ate and drank and saw God also I 



XVII 



180 What were seen ? None knows, none ever shall know 
Only this is sure — the sight were other, 
Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, 
Dying now impoverished here in London. 
God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures 

185 Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with. 
One to show a woman when he loves her! 

XVIll 

This I say of me, but think of you, Ivove! 
This to you — yourself my moon of poets! 
Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, 
\9o Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you ! 
There, in turn I stand with them and praise you — 
Out of m,y own self, I dare to phrase it. 
But the best is when I glide from out them. 
Cross a ste]i or two of dubious twilight. 



ABT VOOLEli 217 

Come out on iho otluM- sido, the novel 19.', 

Silent silver lights and darks nndreanied of, 
Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 



XIX 



Oh, their Rafael of the dc^ar Madonnas, 

Oh, their Dante of th(» dread Inferno, 

Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it, 200 

Drew one angel— borne, see, on my bosom. 



ABT vo(;ler 

(after UE has BEKN EXTEMPOIilSINCJ UPON THE MUSICAL 
INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION) 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music 1 
build. 
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to tlu^ir work. 
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when 
Solomon willed 
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lin-k, 
Man, brute, reptile, fly — alien of end and of aim, 5 

x\dverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-dee|) 
removed, — 
Should rush into sight at once as he named the inefVabU^ 
Name, 
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess 
he loved! 



I^IS SELECTIONS FROM lUlOWNING 

WduUI it might tarry like Iiis, the beautiful buildin;^ of 
mine, 
10 Hiis wliicli my keys in a erowd pressed and im})()rtnn(Hl 
U) raise! 
Ah, one and all, how they lu^lped, would dispart now and 
now eoml)in(\ 
Z(»:dous (o hasten the work, luMo-hten their master his 
prais(^! 
And one would bury his brow with a blind pluni2:e tlown to 
hell. 
Burrow awhile and build broad on the roots of things, 
ir, Then Uj) again swim into sight, having based me my 
])alaee well. 
Founded it, fearless of fhnne, Mat on the netluM" springs. 

And another would mount and march. lik(^ th(^ excellent 
minion he was, 
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with nuniy 
a crest, 
Raising my rampiriHl walls of gold as transparent as glass, 
20 Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: 
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, 

AVhen a great illumination surprises a festal night — 
Outlining round and round Rome's donu* from space to 
s\Vuv) 
Up, the ])iiHiacled glory reached, and the pride of my 
soul was in- sight. 

25 In sight? Xot half, for it seemed, it was certain, to 
uuitch uum's birth, 
Nature in tin-n conceived, obeying an impulse as I; 



AliT VOCILER 219 

And tho emulous lu^iivcii ycjirucd down, niiulc clVort to 
reach the eartli. 
As the earth had done her hesl, in my passion, (o scale 
the sky: 
Nov("l splendours l)Urst i'orlh, <:;re\v rjiniiliar and dwelt 
with mine, 
Not a j)oint noi- peak hut found and fixed ils waiidei-inii; so 
star; 
Meteor-moons, halls of hhize; and tiiey (\'u\ not pale nor 
pine, 
Foi- cartii had attaiiKu] to heaven, there was no more 
near nor far. 



Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare 
and [j;low, 
Presences plain in the |)lace; or, fresh from the Proto- 
plast, 
I'urnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should ar 
blow, 
TiUred now to l)egin and live, in a house to their liking 
at last; 
Or else the wonderful Dead who have [)ass(>(l through 
the body and gone. 
But were back once more to bn^athe in an old world 
worth their new: 
What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall 
be anon; 
And what is, — shill I say, matched both? for I was 40 
made [)erfect too. 



250 SELECTIONS PROM BROWNING 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish ot 
my soul, 
All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed 
visibly forth, 
All through music and me! For think, had I painted the 
whole. 
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so 
wonder-worth : 
V. Had I written the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds 
from cause. 
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale 
is told; 
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, 
Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled : — 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, 
50 Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they 
are! 
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to 
man. 
That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, 
but a star. 
Consider it well: each to le of our scale in itself is naught; 
It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said: 
55 Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: 
And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow 
the head! 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; 
Gone! and the £rood tears start, the praises that come 
too slow: 



ABT VOGLER 251 

For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he 
feared, 
That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. «> 
Never to be again ! But many more of the kind 

As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort 
to me? 
To me, who must be saved because I cHng with my mind 
To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what 
was, shall be. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name ? 65 
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with 
hands! 
What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the 
same ? 
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy i)ower 
expands ? 
There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live 
as before ; 
The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; lo 
What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good 
more; 
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect 

round. 

Ml we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall 
exist ; 
Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, 

nor power 
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the 7r 
melodist 



252 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too 
hard, 
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, 
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; 
80 Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it bv-and- 

by. 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 
For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or 
agonized ? 
Why else was the pause prolongi'd but that singing might 
issue thence? 
Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should 
be prized? 
85 Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and 
woe: 
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; 
The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians 
know. 

Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: 
90 I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, 

Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, — yes, 

And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, 

Surveying awhile the heights I roHed from into the deep; 

s5 Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place 

is found, 

The C Major of this life: soj now I will try to sleep. 



RABBI BEN EZRA 253 



RABBI BEN EZRA 



Grow old along with me! 

The best is yet to be, 
The last of life, for which the first was made: 

Our times are in His hand 

Who saith "A whole I planned, ^ 

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!" 

Not that,* amassing flowers, 

Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, 
Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 

Not that, admiring stars, " 

It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
INIine be some figured flame which blends, transcends 
them all!" 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! ^^ 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without. 
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 

Were man but formed to feed 2c 

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 

Such feasting ended, then 

As sure an end to men; 
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw- 
crammed beast? 



254 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

25 Rejoice we are allied 

To That which doth provide 
And not partake, effect and not receive! 

A spark disturbs our clod; 

Nearer we hold of God 
30 Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe 

Then, welcome each rebuff 

That turns earth's smoothness rough. 

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! 
Be our joys three-parts pain ! 
35 Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe ! 

For thence, — a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks, — 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 
40 What I aspired to be. 

And was not, comforts me: 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 
Whose flesh has soul to suit, 
45 Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play ? 
To man, propose this test — 
Thy body at its best. 
How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? 

Yet gifts should prove their use: 
50 I own the Past profuse 

Of power each side, perfection every turn: 



RABBI BEN EZRA 255 

Eyes, ears took in their dole, 
Brain treasured up the whole; 
Should not the heart beat once ''How good to live and 
learn"? 

Not once beat "Praise be Thine! ss 

I see the whole design, 
I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too: 

Perfect I call Thy plan: 

Thanks that I was a man ! 
Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what Thou shalt ^ 
do!" 

For pleasant is this flesh; 

Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: 

Would we some prize might hold 

To match those manifold «? 

Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best! 

Let us not always say 

"Spite of this flesh to-day 
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" 

As the bird wings and sings, 70 

Let us cry "All good things 
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh 
helps soul!" 

Therefore I summon age 
To grant youth's heritage. 
Life's struggle having so far reached its term: 75 



256 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Thence shall I pass, approved 
A man, for aye removed 
From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 
«o Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new: 
Fearless and unperplexed. 
When I wage battle next. 
What weapons to select, what armour to indue. 

85 Youth ended, I shall try 

jNIy gain or loss thereby; 
Leave the fire ashes, Avhat survives is gold: 

And I shall weigh the same. 

Give life its praise or blame: 
90 Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. 

For note, when evening shuts, 

A certain moment cuts 
The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: 

A whisper from the west 
95 Shoots — **Add this to the rest. 

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." 

So, still within this life. 

Though lifted o'er its strife, 
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 
100 "This rage was right i' the main, 

That acquiescence vain: 
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.' 



RABBI BEN EZRA 257 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 105 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 
ITmts of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth no 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made: 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 
Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid! 

Enough now, if the Right ti5 

And Good and Infinite 
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, 

With knowledge absolute. 

Subject to no dispute 
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 120 

Be there, for once and all. 

Severed great minds from small, 
Announced to each his station in the Past! 

Was I, the world arraigned, 

Were they, my soul disdained, 125 

Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last^ 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 
Ten men love what I hate. 
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 



258 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 
IMatch me: we all snnnlse, 
They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? 



Not on the vulgar mass 
Called *'work," must sentenee pass, 
135 Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 
O'er which, from level stand, 
The low world laid its hand, 
Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice 



But all, the world's coarse thumb 
no And finger failed to plmiib, 

^o passed in making up the main account; 
All instincts immature, 
All purposes unsure. 
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's 
amount: 



145 Thoughts haidly to be packed 

Into a narrow act. 
Fancies that broke through language and escaped; 

All I could never be. 

All, men ignored in me, 
150 This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 
That metaphor! and feel 
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — 



^1 



RABBI HEN EZRA 2r>9 

Tliou, to wlioni fools propoiiiul, 
WluMi (li(^ wino niakos its round, 155 

^ "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to- 
day!" 



Fool! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, j)ast recall; 
Earth changes, hut thy soul and God stand sure: 

What entered into thee, mo 

That was, is, and shall ho; 
Tiuje's Tvheel runs hack or slops: PoKcm- and clay endure. 

He (ixcd lhe(\ mid this dance 

Of ])lastic circumstance, 
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: les 

jNIachincry just meant 

To give thy soul its \)v\\\, 
Try thee and turn thcc forth, suflicicnlly im))ressed. 



What though the earlier grooves 

Which ran the laughing loves 
Aiound thy hase, no longer pause and press? 

What though, about thy rim. 

Skull-things in order grim 
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the st(M'ner stress? 

Look not thou down hut up! 
To uses of a cup, 
The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 



179 



260 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

The new wine's foaming flow, 
The Master's Hps aglow! 
180 Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with 
earth's wheel? 

But I need, now as then, 
Thee, God, who mouldest men; 

And since, not even while the whirl was worst, 
Did I, — to the wheel of life 
i8'> With shapes and colours rife, 

Bound dizzily, — mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: 

So, take and use Thy work: 
Amend what flaws may lurk, 
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 
190 ]\Iy times be in Thy hand ! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS; OR, NATURAL 
THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND 

"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such aii one at 
thyself." 

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, 
Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, 
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. 
And, while be kicks both feet in the cool slush, 
5 And feels about his spine small eft-things course, 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 261 

Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: 
And while above his head a pompion-plant, 
Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, 
Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, 
And now a flower drops with a bee inside. 
And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch, — 
He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross 
And recross till they weave a spider-web 
(Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times) 
And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, 
Touching that other, whom his dam called God. 
Because to talk about Him, vexes— ha. 
Could He but know! and time to vex is now, 
When talk is safer than in winter-time. 
Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep 
In confidence he drudges at their task. 
And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, 
Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.] 

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 

'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon. 

'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match. 
But not the stars; ib.e stars came otherwise; 
Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: 
Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon. 
And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same. 

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: 
He hated that He cannot change His cold. 
Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish 



2G2 SELECTIONS P^ROM BROWNING 

That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she Hved, 
35 And thaw lierself within the hikewarm brine 

O' the hizy sea her stream thrusts far amid, 

A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; 

Only, she ever sickened, found repulse 

At the other kind of water, not her life, 
40 (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun) 

Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, 

And in her old bounds buried her despair, 

Hating and loving warmth alike: so He. 

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, 

4{5 Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. 
Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; 
Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, 
That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown 
He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye 

50 By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue 
That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, 
And says a plain word when she finds her pr\7A\ 
But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves 
That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks 

55 About their hole — He made all these and more^ 
Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? 
He could not. Himself, make a second self 
To be His mate; as well have made Himself: 
He would not make what he mislikes or slights, 

60 An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains: 
But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, 
JNIake what Himself Avould fain, in a manner, be — 
Weaker in most points, stronger in a few. 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 263 

Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, 

Things He admires and mocks too, — that is it. * 

Because, so brave, so better though they be, 

It nothing skills if He begins to plague. 

Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash. 

Add honey-comb and pods, I have perceived. 

Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss, — '« 

Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all. 

Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; 

Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, 

And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. 

Put case, unable to be what I wish, 75 

I yet could make a live bird out of clay: 

Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban 

Able to fly? — for, there, see, he hath wings. 

And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire. 

And there, a sting to do his foes offence, so 

There, and I will that he begin to live. 

Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns 

Of grigs high up that make the merry din, 

Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. 

In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, ss 

And he lay stupid-like, — why, I should laugh; 

And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, 

Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, 

Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again, — 

Well, as the chance were, this might take or else 90 

Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry. 

And give the manikin three sound legs for one. 

Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg. 

And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. 



264 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

95 Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, 
Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, 
Making and marring clay at will ? So He. 

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, 

Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. 
100 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs 

That march now from the mountain to the sea; 

'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first. 

Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 

'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots 
105 Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 

'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, 

And two worms he whose nippers end in red; 

As it likes me each time, I do: so He. 

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, 
110 Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, 
But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! 
Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, 
And envieth that, so helped, such things do more 
Than He who made them ! What consoles but this ? 
115 That they, unless through Him, do naught at all. 
And must submit: what other use in things? 
'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint 
That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay 
When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: 
120 Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay 
Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: 
Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth 
"I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 265 

I make the cry my maker cannot make 

With his great round mouth; he must blow through 125 

mine!" 
Would not I smash it with my foot ? So He. 

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? 

Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, 

What knows, — the something over Setebos 

That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, i3«^ 

Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. 

There may be something quiet o'er His head. 

Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, 

Since both derive from weakness in some way. 

I joy because the quails come; would not joy iss 

Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: 

This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 

'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, 

But never spends much thought nor care that way. 

It may look up, work up, — the worse for those 140 

It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos 

The many-handed as a cuttle-fish. 

Who, making Himself feared through what He does, 

Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar 

To what is quiet and hath happy life; 145 

Next looks down here, and out of very spite 

Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real. 

These good things to match those as hips do grapes. 

*Tis solace making baubles, ay, and sport. 

Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books i5o 

Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: 

Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, 



260 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; 

Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; 
155 Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe 

The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; 

And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, 
' A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch. 

Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, 
160 And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 

'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane 

He bids go wade { n* fish and straight disgorge; 

Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared. 

Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, 
165 And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge 

In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; 

A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 

'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, 

Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He. 

170 His dam held that the Quiet made all things 
Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. 
Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. 
Had He meant other, while His hand was in. 
Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, 

175 Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow. 
Or overscale my flesh *neatli joint and joint. 
Like an ore's armour? Ay, — so spoil His sport! « 
He is the One now: only He doth all. 

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. 
180 Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 
'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 2C7 

Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, 

But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate 

Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes. 

Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, tsb 

Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, 

, By no means for the love of what is worked. 

; 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world 
When all goes right, in this safe summer-tim?, 
And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, i9o 

I Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 
'P'alls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, 
And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, 
And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, 
And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, iw 

And crow^ned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, 
Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. 
No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 
'Shall some day knock it down again: so He. 

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! '^ 

One hurricane wdll spoil six good months' hope. 
I He hath a spite against me, that I know. 
Just as He favours Prosper, who knows why? 
So it is, all the same, as well I find. 

'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm 205 

With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises 
Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one w^ave, 
Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck. 
Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue. 
And licked the whole labour flat: so much for spite. 210 

'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) 



268 SELECTIONS FROM BROAVNING 

Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: 

Often they scatter sparkles : there is f oree ! 

'Dug up a newt He may have envied once 
215 And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. 

Please Him and hinder this ? — What Prosper does ? 

Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He! 

There is the sport: discover how or die! 

All need iK)t die, for of the things o' the isle 
2N0 Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; 

Those at His mercy, — why, they please Him most 

When . . . when . . . well, never try the same waj> 
twice ! 

Repeat what act has pleased. He may grow wroth, 

You must not know His ways, and play Him olf , 
225 Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 

'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears 

But steals the nut from underneath my thumb. 

And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 

Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, 
230 Curls up into a ball, pretending death 

For fright at my approach: the two ways please. 

But what would move my choler more than this. 

That either creature counted on its life 

To-morrow and next day and all days to come, 
235 Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, 

''Because he did so yesterday with me, 

And otherwise with such another brute. 

So must he do henceforth and always." — Ay? 

Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means' 
240 'Doth as he hkes, or wherefore Lord? So He. 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 269 

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, 

And we shall have to live in fear of Him 

So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, 

If He have done His best, make no new world 

To please Him more, so leave off watching this,— 245 

If He surprise not even the Quiet's self 

Some strange day, — or, suppose, grow into it 

As grubs grow butterflies: else, here are we, 

And there is He, and nowhere help at all. 

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. 250 

His dam held different, that after death 
He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: 
Idly! He doth His worst in this our life. 
Giving just respite lest we die through pain. 
Saving last pain for worst, — with which, an end. 255 

Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire 
Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, 
Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink- 
Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 
'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball 260 

On head and tail as if to save their lives: 
Moves them the stick away they strive to clear. 

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose 

This Caliban strives hard and ails no less. 

And always, above all else, envies Him; 2P« 

Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights. 

Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh. 

And never speaks his mind save housed as now: 

Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here. 



270 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

273 O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" 
'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, 
Or of my three kid yearhngs burn the best, 
Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, 
Or push my tame beast for the ore to taste: 

275 While myself lit a fire, and made a song 
And sung it, "What I hate, be consecrate 
To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate 
For Thee; tvhat see for envy in poor mef 
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, 

280 Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime. 
That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch 
And conquer Setebos, or likelier He 
Decrepit may doze, daze, as good as die. 



[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once! 

285 Crickets stop hissing; not a bird — or, yes. 
There scuds His raven that has told Him all! 
It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind 
Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, 
And fast invading fires begin! White blaze — 

290 A tree's head snap3 — and there, there, there, there, there, 
His thunder follows ! Fool to gibe at Him ! 
Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! 
'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip. 
Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month 

295 One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape I] 



MAY AxND DEATH 27X 



MAY AND DEATH 

I WISH that when you died last May, 
Charles, there had died along with you 

Three parts of spring's delightful things; 
Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too. 

A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps! 

There must be many a pair of friends 
Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm 

Moon-births and the long evening-ends. 

So, for their sake, be May still May 
Let their new time, as mine of old, 

Do all it did for me: I bid 

Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. 

Only, one little sight, one plant. 

Woods have in May, that starts up green 
Save a sole streak which, so to speak. 

Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,- 

That, they might spare; a certain wood 
Might miss the plant; their loss were smal] 

But I, — whene'er the leaf growls there. 
Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. 



272 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 



PROSPICE 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
5 The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 
10 And the barriers fall, 

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained. 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last! 
15 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No I let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 
20 Of pain, darkness and cold. 

For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. 

The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
25 Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest! 



A FACE 273 



A FACE 



If one could have that Httle head of hers 

Painted upon a background of pale gold, 
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! 

No shade encroaching on the matchless mould 
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft 

In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, 
For that spoils all: bvit rather as if aloft 

Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's 
Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss 
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. 
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, 
How it should waver on the pale gold ground 
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! 
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: 
But these are only massed there, I should think, 

Waiting to see some wonder momently 

Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky 
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), 

All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye 
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. 



274 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 



O LYRIC LOVE 

O LYRIC Love, half angel and half bird 
And all a wonder and a wild desire, — 
Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, 
Took sanctuary within the holier blue, 

5 And sang a kindred soul out to his face,— - 
Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart — 
When the first summons from the darkling earth 
Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, 
And bared them of the glory — to drop down, 

10 To toil for man, to suffer or to die, — 

This is the same voice : can thy soul know change ? 
Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help ! 
Never may I commence my song, my due 
To God who best taught song by gift of thee 

15 Except with bent head and beseeching hand — 
That still, despite the distance and the dark, 
What was, again may be; some interchange 
Of grace, some splendour once thy very thought. 
Some benediction anciently thy smile: 

20 ^ — Never conclude, but raising hand and head 
Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn 
For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, 
Their utmost up and on, — so blessing back 
In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, 

25 Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, 
Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall! 



PROLOGUE TO PACCHIAROTTO 275 

PROLOGUE TO PACCHIAROTTO 

A WALL 

O THE old wall here! How I could pass 

Life in a long midsummer day, 
My feet confined to a plot of grass, 

My eyes from a wall not once away! 



And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe 
Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: 

Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, 
In lappets of tangle they laugh between. 



Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? 

Why tremble the sprays ? What life o'erbrims 
The body, — the house, no eye can probe, — 

Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? 



And there again! But my heart may guess 
Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: 

So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess 
Died out and away in the leafy wraps. 

Wall upon wall are between us: life 

And song should away from heart to heart. 

I — prison-bird, with a ruddy strife 

At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start — 



27b SELECTIONS FROM BROWNlr^JG 

Hold on, hope liard in tlio sul>tlr thing 

That's spirit: tliough cloistered fast, soar free; 

Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring 

Of the rueful neighbours, and — forth to thee I 



HOUSE 

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? 

Do I live in a house you would like to see? 
Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf? 

''Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?" 

Invite the world, as my betters have done? 

''Take notice: this building remains on view, 
Its suites of rece})tion every one, 

Its private apartment and bedroom too; 

• 
"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." 

No: thanking the public, I must decline, 
A peep through my window, if folk prefer; 

But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine! 

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk 
In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced: 

And a house stood gaping, naught to balk 
Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced. 

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, 
The inside gaped: exposed to day, 



HOUSE 277 

Right and wrong and common and queer, 
Bare, as the pahn of your hand, it lay. 

The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt! 

''Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth! 
What a parcel of musty old books about! 

He smoked, — no wonder he lost his health! 



"I doubt if he bathed before he dressed. 

A brasier? — the pagan, he burned perfumes! 
You see it is proved, what the neighbours guessed: 

His wife and himself had separate rooms." 

Friends, the goodman of the house at least 

Kept house to himself till an earthquake came: 

'Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast 
On the inside arrangement you praise or blame. 



Outside should suffice for evidence: 
And whoso desires to penetrate 

Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense— 
No optics like yours, at any rate! 



"Hoity toity! A street to explore. 

Your house the exception! 'With this same key 
Shakespeare unlocked his heart,' once more!" 

Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he! 



278 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

SHOP 

65 So, FRIEND, your shop was all your house! 

Its front, astonishing the street, 
Invited view from man and mouse 
To what diversity of treat 
Behind its glass — the single sheet! 

70 What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: 

Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog; 
Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; 
Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: 
Queer names, too, such a catalogue! 

75 I thought "And he who owns the wealth 

Which blocks the window's vastitude, 
—Ah, could I peep at him by stealth 
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude 
On house itself, what scenes were viewed 

80 *'If wide and showy thus the shop, 

What must the habitation prove? 
The true house with no name a-top — 
The mansion, distant one remove, 
Once get him off his traffic-groove! 

85 ''Pictures he likes, or books perhaps; 

And as for buying most and best. 
Commend me to these City chaps! 
Or else he's social, takes his rest 
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest. 



SHOP 279 

"Some suburb-palace, parked about oc 

And gated grandly, built last year: 
The four-mile walk to keep off gout; 

Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer: 

But then he takes the rail, that's clear. 

"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects 95 

Some out o' the way, some all-unknown 

Retreat: the neighbourhood suspects 
Little that he who rambles lone 
Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!" * 

Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence ^^^ 

Fit to receive and entertain, — 
Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence 

From noise and crowd, from dust and drain, — 

Nor country-box was soul's domain! 

Nowise! At back of all that spread 105 

Of merchandise, woe's me, I find 
A hole i' the wall where, heels by head, 

The owner couched, his ware behind, 

— In cupboard suited to his mind. 



For why ? He saw no use of life 
But, while he drove a roaring trade. 

To chuckle "Customers are rife!" 

To chafe "So much hard cash outlaid 
Yet zero m my profits made! 



280 SELECTIONS FROM lillOWNlNG 

"This novelty costs pains, but — takes? 
Cumbers my counter! Stock no morel 

This article, no such great shakes. 
Fizzes like wildfire? ITnderscore 
The cheap thing -tlionsands to the forel' 



'Twas lodging best to live most nioh 
(Cramj), cofhnlike as crib migL> be) 

Receipt of Custom; ear and eye 

Wanted no out world: "Hear and see 
^he bustle in tlie shop!" quoth he 

My fancy of a merchant-prince 

Was different. Through his wares we groped 
Our darkling way to — not to mince 

The matter — no black den where mo})ed 

The master if we interloj^ed ! 

Shop was shop only: honseliold-stuff ? 

What did he want with comforts there? 
"Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, 

So goods on sale show rich and rare! 

'Sell and scud home be shop's affair!" 



What might he deal in? Gems, suppose! 
Since somehow business must be done 

At cost of trouble, — see, he throws 
You choice of jewels, everyone, 
Good, better, best, star, moon and sun I 



SHOP . 281 



140 



Which lies within your power of purse? 
This ruby that would tii) ariglit 

Solomon's sceptre? Oh, your nurse 
Wants simply coral, the delight 
Of teething babv,— stuff to bite I 



Ilowe'er your clioicc fell, straight you took i45 

Your purchase, prompt your money rang 

On counter, — scarce the man forsook 
His study of the ''Times," just swang 
Till-ward his haiid that stopped the clang,— 



Then olf made buyer with a prize, w© 

Then seller to his ''Times" returned; 

And so did day wear, wear, till eyes 
Brightened apace, for rest was earned: 
He locked door long ere candle burned. 



And whither went he? Ask himself, 
Not me I To change of scene, I think. 

Once sold the ware and })ursed the jK'lf, 
Charter was scarce his meat and drirdc. 
Nor all his musir — money-chink. 



Because a man has sho|) to mind 

In time and i)lace, since flesh must live, 

Needs spirit lack all life behind, 
All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, 
All loves except what trade can give? 



us 



loa 



2S2 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

I want to know a butcher paints, 
A baker rhymes for his pursuit, 

Candlestick-maker much acquaints 
His soul with song, or, haply mute. 
Blows out his brains upon the flute! 

But — shop each day and all day longl 
Friend, your good angel slept, your star 

Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! 
From where these sorts of treasures are. 
There should our hearts be — Christ, how far! 



HERVE RIEL 



On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety- 
two, 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! 
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, 
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 
5 Came crowding ship on ship to Saint-Malo on the Ranee, 
With the English fleet in view. 

II 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full 
chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Dam- 
f reville ; 



HERVE KIEL 283 

Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all; i 

And they signalled to the place 
"Help the winners of a race! 

Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick — or, 

quicker still, 
Here's the English can and will!" 

Ill 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on i: 
board ; 
**Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to 
pass?" laughed they: 
*' Rocks to starboard, rocks to ports, all the passage scarred 

and scored, — 
Shall the 'Formidable' here, with her twelve and eighty 
guns, 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way. 
Trust to enter — where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, so 
And with flow at full beside ? 
Now% 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring ? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs. 

Not a ship will leave the bay!" 2i. 

IV 

Then was called a council straight. 
Brief and bitter the debate: 

''Here's the English at our heels; would you have them 
take in tow 



284 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
30 For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
Better run the ships aground!" 

(Ended Damfreville his speech). 
"Not a minute more to wait! 
Let the Captains all and each 
•5 Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the 
beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 



Give the word!" But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all 
these 
^ — A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A jVIate — first, second, 
third ? 
No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the 
fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 

VI 

46 And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries 
Herv^ Rich 
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, 
fools, or rogues ? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, 
tell 



IIERVE RIEL 285 

On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 
'Twixt the offing here and Gr^ve where the river dis- 
embogues ? 
Arc you bought by English gold ? Is it love the lying's so 
ifor? 

Morn and eve, night and day. 
Have I piloted your bay. 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 
Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That were worse than 
fifty Hogucs! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me 54 
there's a way! 
Only let me lead the line. 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this 'Formidable' clear, 
Make the others follow mine. 

And I lead them, most and least by a passage I know eo 
well, 
Right to Solidor past Grevc, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, — 

— Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, r^^e nothing but my life, — here's my head!" cries 65 
Herve Riel 



VII 



Not a minute more to wait. 

*' Steer us in, then, small and great! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!'* cried 
its chief. 



2S6 SELECTIONS FROM BROAVNING . 

Captains, give the sailor place! 
TO He is Admiral, in brief. 

Still the north-wind, by God's grace! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound. 
Clears the entry like a hound, 
N Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide sea's 
profound ! 
See, safe thro' shoal and rock. 
How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground. 
Not a spar that comes to grief! 
» The peril, see, is past. 

All are harboured to the last. 

And just as Herve Riel hollas *' Anchor!" — sure as fate 

Up the English come, — too late! 



VIII 



So, the storm subsides to calm: 
8fi They see the green trees wave 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
** Just our rapture to enhance. 
Let the English rake the bay, 
90 Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
As they cannonade away! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee!" 
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's counte- 
nance! 



HERVE KIEL 287 

Out hurst all with one accord, ^ 

"This is Paradise for Hell! 

Let France, let France's King 

Thank the man that did the thing!" 
What a shout, and all one word, "Herve Riel!** 
As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 

In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 



IX 



Then said Damfreville, "My friend, 

I must speak out at the end, f 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips: 
You have saved the King his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart's content and have 1 or my name's not Dam- 
freville." 



Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 



288 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNINd 

"Since I needs must say my say, 
Since on board the duty's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what ^is it but 
a run? — 
120 Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 
Since the others go ashore — 
Come! A good whole hoUday! 

Leave to go and see my wife, w^iom I call the Belle 

Aurore!" 
That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 



XI 



125 



Name and deed alike are lost: 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing-smack, 
130 In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from the fight whence England 
bore the bell. 
Go to Paris: rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank! 
135 You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve 
Kiel. 
So, for better. and for worse, 

Herv6 Riel, accept my verse! n 

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle 
Aurore ! 



'GOOD TO FORGIVE" 289 



"GOOD TO FORGIVE" 



Good, to forgive; 

Best, to forget! 

Living, we fret; 
Dying, we live. 
Fretless and free. 

Soul, clap thy pinion! 

Earth have dominion, 
Body, o'er thee! 



Wander at will. 

Day after day, — ifl 

Wander away, 
Wandering still — 
Soul that canst soar! 

Body may slumber: 

Body shall cumber ae 



Soul-flight no more. 



Waft of soul's wing! 

What lies above? 

Sunshine and Love, 
Skyblue and Spring! 20 

Body hides — where? 

Ferns of all feather, 

Mosses and heather. 
Yours be the care! 



290 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

"SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS" 

Such a starved bank of moss 

Till that May-morn, 
Blue ran the flash across: 

Violets were born! 

Sky — what a scowl of cloud 

Till, near and far, 
Ray on ray split the shroud 

Splendid, a star! 

World — how it walled about 

Life with disgrace 
Till God's own smile came out: 

That was thy face! 



EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF 
CROISIC 

What a pretty tale you told me 

Once upon a time 
— Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) 

Was it prose or was it rhyme, 
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, 
While your shoulder propped my head. 



THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 291 

Anyhow there's no forgetting 

This much if no more, 
That a poet (pray, no petting!) 

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, lo 

Went where suchhke used to go, 
Singing for a prize, you know. 

Well, he had to sing, nor merely 

Sing but play the lyre; 
Playing was important clearly is 

Quite as singing: I desire, 
Sir, you keep the fact in mind 
For a purpose that's behind. 

There stood he, while deep attention 

Held the judges round, ao 

— Judges able, I should mention. 
To detect the slightest sound 

Sung or played amiss: such ears 

Had old judges, it appears! 

None the less he sang out boldly, 25 

Played in time and tune. 
Till the judges, weighing coldly 

Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon. 
Sure to smile ''In vain one tries 
Picking faults out: take the prize!" so 

When, a mischief! Were they seven 

Strings the lyre possessed? I 

Oh, and afterwards eleven. 



292 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Thank you ! Well, sir, — who had guesseci 
Such ill luck in store? — it happed 
One of those same seven strings snapped. 

All was lost, then! No! a cricket 

(What "cicada"? Pooh!) 
— Some mad thing that left its thicket 

For mere love of music — flew 
With its little heart on fire, 
Lighted on the crippled lyre. 

So that when (ah joy!) our singer 

For his truant string 
Feels with disconcerted finger. 

What does cricket else but fling 
Fiery heart forth, sound the note 
Wanted by the throbbing throat? 

Ay and, ever to the ending, 

Cricket chirps at need, 
Executes the hand's intending, 

Promptly, perfectly, — indeed 
Saves the singer from defeat 
With her chirrup low and sweet. 

Till, at ending, all the judges 

Cry with one assent 
**Take the prize — a prize who grudges 

Such a voice and instrument? 
Why, we took your lyre for harp, 
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" 



THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 293 

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, 

Once its service done? 
That's no such uncommon feature 

In the case when Music's son 
Finds his L/)tte's power too- spent 
For aiding soul-devr'opment. 

No! This other, on returning 

Homeward, prize in hand, 
Satisfied his bosom's yearning: 

(Sir, I hope you understand!) 
— Said "Some record there must be 
Of this cricket's help to me!" 

So, he made himself a statue: 

Marble stood, life-size; 
On the lyre, he pointed at you 

Perched his partner in the prize; 
Never more apart you found 
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned, 

That's the tale: its application? 

Somebody I know 
Hopes one day for reputation 

Through his poetry that's — Oh, 
All so learned and so wise 
And deserving of a prize! 

If he gains one, will some ticket, 

When his statue's built, 
Tell the gazer **'Twas a cricket 



75 



294 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 
Sweet and low, when strength usurped 
m Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped ? 



"For as victory was righest, 
While I sang and piayed, — 

With my lyre at lowest, highest. 
Right alike, — one string that made 

*Love' sound soft was snapt'in twain, 

Never to be heard again, — 



"Had not a kind cricket fluttered^ 

Perched upon the place 
Vacant left, and duly uttered 
100 *Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass 

Asked the treble to atone 
For its somewhat sombre drone." 



But you don't know music! Wherefore 

Keep on casting pearls 
To a — poet? All I care for 

Is — to tell him that a girl's 
"Love" comes aptly in when gruff 
Grows his singing. (There, enough!) 



PHEIDIPPIDES 295 

PHEIDIPPIDES 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! 

Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honour to all ! 

Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal 
in praise 

— Ay, with Zeus -the Defender, with Her of the gegis and 
spear! 

Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, s 

Now, henceforth and forever, — O latest to whom I up- 
raise 

Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture 
and flock! 

Present to help, potent to save, Pan — patron I call ! 

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return ! 

See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks ! i^ 

Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens 
and you, 

"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! 

Persia has come, we are here, where is She ?" Your com- 
mand I obeyed, 

Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs 
through, 

Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights ip 
did I burn 

Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. 



296 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia 

has come! 
Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and 

earth ; 
Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens 

sink, 
20 Drop into dust and die — the flower of Helias utterly die, 
Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, 

the stander-by ? 
Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch 

o'er destruction's brink? 
How, — when? No care for my limbs! — there's lightning 

in all and some — 
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!" 

25 O my Athens — Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? 
Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust. 
Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified 

hate! 
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. 

I stood 
Quivering, — ithe limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch 

from dry wood: 
•^ "Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? 
Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry 

beyond 
Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 

^Ye must'!" 

No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at 
last! 



PHEIDIPPIDES 297 

''Has Persia come,— does Athens ask aid,— may Sparta 

befriend ? 
Nowise precipitate judgment— too weighty the issue at 35 

stake ! 
Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to 

the gods! 
Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the 

odds 
In your favour, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable 

to take 
Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it 

fast : 
Athens must wait, patient as we— who judgment suspend." 40 

Athens,— except for that sparkle,— thy name, I had 

mouldered to ash! 
That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was 

I back, 
—Not one w^ord to waste, one look to lose on the false and 

the vilel 
Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and 

plain. 
Wood and stream, I knew% I named, rushing past them a 

again, 
"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honours we paid 

you erewhile? 
Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too 

rash 
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! 



298 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

"Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to en wreathe 
50 Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's 

foot, 
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a 

slave! 
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract ! 
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if 

slacked 
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave 
55 No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can 

breathe. 
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the 

mute!" 

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; 

Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a 

bar 
Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 
80 Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure 

across : 
"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the 

fosse ? 
Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, 

thus I obey — 
Out of the day dive, mto the day as bravely arise! No 

bridge 
Better!" — when — ha! what was it I came on, of wonders 

that are? 

65 There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan : 

Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his 
hoof: 



PHEIDIPPIDES 299 

All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the 

curl 
Carved on the bearded check, amused at a mortal's awe. 
As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 
''Halt, Pheidippides ! " — halt I did, my brain of a whirl: 7o 
** Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious 

began : 
*'How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holc^ me aloof? 



''Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! 
Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more help- 
ful of old? 
Ay, and still, and for ever her friend! Test Pan, trust ^^ 

me! 
Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have 

faith 
In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The 

Goat-God saith: 
When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in 

the sea. 
Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most 

and least. 
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free S'* 

and the bold!' 

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the 

pledge!' " 
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear 
— Fennel — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — whatever it 

bode) 



300 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

*' While, as for thee" . . . But enough! He was gone c 

If I ran hitherto — 
85 Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but 

flew. 
Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road : 
Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the 

razor's edge! 
Pan for Athens,* Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare! 



Then spoke Miltiades. ''And thee, best runner of Greece, 
90 Whose limb> did duty indeed, — what gift is promised 

thyself? 
Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of 

her son!" 
Rosily blushed the youth : he paused : but, lifting at length 
His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the 

rest of his strength 
Into the utterance — *'Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou 

hast done 
95 Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee 

release 
From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in 

pelf!' 

**I am bold to believe. Pan means reward the most to my 

mind ! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel 

may grow, — 
Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the 

deep, 



PHEIDIPPIDES 301 

Whelm her away for ever; and then, — no Athens to save,— 
Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,— 
Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall 

creep 
Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful yet 

kind, 
Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — 

so!" 



Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: los 

So, when Persia was dust, all cried ''To Akropolis! 

Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 

'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down 
his shield. 

Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel- 
field 

And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs no 

through. 
Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Tike wine 

through clay, 
Jov in his blood bursting his heart, he died— the bliss 1 

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of 

salute 
Is still ''Rejoice!"— his word which brought rejoicing 

indeed. 
So is Pheidippides happy for ever,— the noble strong man "3 
Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom 

a god loved so well; 
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was 

suffered to tell 



302 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he be- 

^an, 
So to end gloriously — once to shout, thereafter be mute: 
120 *' Athens is saved!" — Pheidippides dies in the shout for 
his meed. 



MULEYKEH 

If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn, he cried "'A 

churl's!" 
Or haply *'God help the man who has neither salt nor 

bread!" 
— *'Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity 

nor scorn 
More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, 

picking pearls, 
g — Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead 
On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night 

makes morn. 

*'What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sindn ? 
They w^ent when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels 

the due. 
Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 
10 *God gave them, let them go! But never since time 

began, 
Muleykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you. 
And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land 

and gold!' 



MULEYKEH 303 

"So in the pride of his soul laughs H6seyn— and right, 

I say. 
Do the ten steeds run a race of glory ? Outstripping all, 
Ever Muleykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. is 
Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, 

that day. 
'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to 

call 
Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hoseyn, 

I say, to laugh!" 

"Boasts he Muleykeh the Pearl?" the stranger replies: 

"Be sure 
On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both ac 

On Duhl the son of Sheyban, who withers away in heart 
For envy of H6seyn's luck. Such sickness admits no 

cure. 
A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an 

oath, 
'For the vulgar— flocks and herds! The Pearl is a prize 

apart.' " 

Lo, Duhl the son of Sheyban comes riding to Hoseyn's 25 

tent, 
And he casts his saddle down, and enters and "Peace!" 

bids he. 
"You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend 

the wrong. 
'Tis said of your Pearl— the price of a hundred camels 

«oent 



304 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is 
far from me 
30 Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last 
too long." 

Said Hoseyn "You feed young beasts a many, rf famous 

breed, 
JSlit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Muzennem: 
There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs 

the hill. 
But I love Mul^ykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed 
35 Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels — go 

gaze on them! 
Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer 

still." 

A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. 
" You are open-hearted, ay — moist-handed, a very prince. 
Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple 

gift! 
40 My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 
'Fool, 
Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since 
God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him 
shows thrift.'" 

Said H6seyn "God gives each man one life, like a lamp, 

then gives 
That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted — hold high, 

wave wide 



MULEYKEH 305 

Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help 45 

is left? 
The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muleykeh 

lives. 
Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muleykeh died ? 
It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" 

Another year, and — hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? 
He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, 5o 
But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the 

trench 
Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night 

combines 
With the robber — and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to 

crime, 
Must wring from Hoseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever 

the wrench. 

**IIe was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my ss 

store, 
And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring 

dew? 
Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! 
He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he 

rode: nay, more — 
For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: 
I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife eo 

and son. 

**I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash 
Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then 
guile. 



306 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die: 
Let him die, then, — let me live! Be bold — but not too 

rash! 
65 I have found me a peeping-place : breast, bury your 

breathing while 
I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived mc 

not, the spy! 

*'As he said — there lies in peace Hoseyn — how happy! 

Beside 
Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall 

about his wrist: 
'Tis therefore he sleeps so sound — the moon through the 

roof reveals. 
•0 And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far 

and wide, 
Buheyseh, her sister born : fleet is she yet ever missed 
The winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous 

heels. 

*'No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in 
case some thief 

Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to 
do. 
75 What then ? The Pearl is the Pearl : once mount her we 
both escape." 

Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl, — so a serpent dis- 
turbs no leaf 

In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean 
through, 

He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs 
the rape. 



MULEYKEH 307 

He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has 

clipped 
The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound so 

as before, 
He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like 

bolt from bow. 
Up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the 

heart be ripped, 
Yet liis mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, 
He is out and off and away on Buheyseh, whose worth 

we know! 

And Hoseyn — his blood turns flame, he has learned long 85 

since to ride, 
And Buheyseh does her part, — they gain — they are gaining 

fast 
On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Darraj to cross and 

quit, 
And to reach the ridge El-Saban, — no safety till that be 

spied ! 
And Buhevseh is, bound bv bound, but a horse-lenj^th 

off at last. 
For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of ^ 

the bit. 

She sliortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange 

and queer: 
Buheyseh is mad with hope — beat sister she shall and 

must 
Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to 

thank. 



308 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

She is near now, nose by tall — they are neck by croup — 
joy! fear! 
95 What folly makes Hoseyn shout "Dog Duhl, Damned 
son of the Dust, 
Touch the right ear and press VAith your foot my Pearl's 
left flank!" 

And Duhl was wise at the word,, and Muleykeh as prompt 

perceived 
Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was 

to obey. 
And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore 
100 And Hoseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, 
Looks, fain to follow the dead ^o far as the living may: 
Then he turned Buheyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping 

sore. 

And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hoseyn upon the ground 
Weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Benu- 

Asad 
105 111 the vale of green Er-Ilass, and they questioned him 

of his grief; 
And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had 

wound 
His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so 

bad! 
And how Buheyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with 

the thief. 

And they jeered him, one and all : " Poor Hoseyn is crazed 
past hope! 



"WANTING IS— WHAT" 309 

How else had he wrought Iiimsclf his ruin, in fortune's no 

spite ? 
'Jo have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl. 
And here were Muleykeh again, the eyed like an antelope. 
The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by 

night!" — 
And the beaten in speed!" wept Hoseyn: ''You never 

have loved mv Pearl." 



"WANTING IS— WHAT" 

Summer redundant, 

Blueness abundant, 

—Where is the blot ? 
Beamy the world, yd a blank all the same, 
— Framework which waits for a picture to frame: 6 

What of the leafage, what of the flower ? 
Roses embowering with naught they embower! 
Come then, complete incompletion, O comer. 
Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! 

Breathe but one breath 40 

Rose-beauty above. 

And all that was death 

Grows life, grows love, 
Grows love! 



310 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 



NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 



Never the time and the place 
And the loved one all together! 

This path — how soft to pace! 
This May — what magic w^eather! 

Where is the loved one's face? 
In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, 

But the house is narrow, the place is bleal* 
Where, outside, rain and wind combine 

With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak. 

With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, 
With a malice that marks each word, each sign? 
O enemy sly and serpentine, 

Uncoil thee from the waking man! 
Do I hold the Past 
Thus firm and fast 

Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? 
This path so soft to pace shall lead 
Thro* the magic of May to herself indeed! 
Or narrow if needs the house must be. 
Outside are the storms and strangers: we— 
Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, 

— I and she! 



THE PATRIOT 311 

THE PATRIOT 

It was roses, roses, all the way, 

With myrtle mixed in m}^ path like mad : 

The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, 
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 

A year ago on this very day. 5 

The air broke into a mist with bells. 

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 
Had I said, ''Good folk, mere noise repels — 

But give me your sun from yonder skies!" 
They had answered, "And afterward, what else?" lo 

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
To give it my loving friends to keep ! 

Naught man could do, have I left undone : 
And you see my harvest, what I reap 

This very day, now a year is run. i^ 

There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
Just a palsied few at the windows set ; 

For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet, 

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.. 20 

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 

A rope cuts both my wrists behind; 
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 

For they fling, whoever has a mind. 
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. ^ 



312 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Thus I entered, and thus I go! 

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
"Paid by the world, what dost thou ow^e 

Me?'' — God might question; now instead, 
'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 



INSTANS TYRANNUS 
I 

Of the million or two, more or less, 
I rule and possess. 
One man, for some cause undefined, 
"Was least to my mind. 

n 

5 I struck him, he grovelled of course — 

For, what was his force? 

I pinned him to earth with my weight 

And persistence of hate : 

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, 
10 As his lot might be w^orse. 

Ill 

''Were the object less mean, would he stand 

At the swing of my hand ! 

For obscurity helps him and blots 

The hole where he squats." 



INSTANS TYRANNUS 313 

So, I set my five wits on the stretch is 

To inveigle the wretch. 

All in vain ! Gold and jewels I threw, 

Still he couched there perdue; 

I tempted his blood and his flesh, 

Hid in roses my mesh, 20 

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth: 

Still he kept to his filth. 



IV 



Had he kith now or kin, were access 

To his heart, did I press: 

Just a son or a mother to seize! 25 

No such booty as these. 

Were it simply a friend to pursue 

'Mid my million or two. 

Who could pa}^ me in person or pelf 

What he owes me himself! 30 

No : I could not but smile through my chafe : 

For the fellow lay safe 

As his mates do, the midge and the nit, 

— Through minuteness, to wit. 



•Then a humor more great took its place 35 

At the thought of his face, 

The droop, the low cares of the mouth, 

The trouble uncouth 



314 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain 
40 To put out of its pain. 

And, ''no!" I admonished myself, 

''Is one mocked by an elf, 

Is one baffled by toad or by rat? 

The gravamen 's in that ! 
45 How the lion, who crouches to suit 

His back to my foot, 

Would admire that I stand in debate! 

But the small turns the great 

If it vexes you, — that is the thing! 
50 Toad or rat vex the king?^ 

Though I waste half my realm to unearth 

Toad or rat, 'tis well worth!" 



VI 



So, I soberly laid my last plan 

To extinguish the man. 

Round his creep-hole, with never a break, 

Ran my fires for his sake; 

Over-head, did my thunder combine 

With my underground mine: 

Till I looked from my labor content 

To enjoy the event. 



VII 



When sudden . . . how think ye, the end 
Did I say "without friend"? 



THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 315 

Say rather, from marge to blue marge 

The whole sky grew his targe 

With the sun's self for visible boss, 65 

While an Arm ran across 

Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast 

Wiiere the wretch was safe prest! 

Do you see? Just my vengeance complete, 

The man sprang to his feet, to 

Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed! 

— So, / w^as afraid ! 



THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 

That second time they hunted me 

From hill to plain, from shore to sea. 

And Austria, hounding far and wide 

Her blood-hounds through the country-side. 

Breathed hot and instant on my trace, — 5 

I made six days a hiding-place 

Of that dry green old aqueduct 

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked 

The fire-flies from the roof above, 

Bright creeping through the moss they love: 10 

— How long it seems since Charles was lost ! 

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed 

The country in my very sight; 

And when that peril ceased at night. 

The sky broke out in red dismaj^ is 



316 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

With signal fires; well, there I lay 
Close covered o'er in my recess, 
Up to the neck in ferns and cress. 
Thinking on Metternich our friend, 

20 And Charles's miserable end. 

And much beside, two days; the third, 
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard 
The peasants from the village go 
To work among the maize ; you know, 

25 With us in Lombardy, they bring 

Provisions packed on mules, a string 
With little bells that cheer their task, 
And casks, and boughs on every cask 
To keep the sun 's heat from the wine ; 

30 These I let pass in jingling line. 

And, close on them, dear noisy crew, 
The peasants from the village, too; 
For at the very rear would troop 
Their wives and sisters in a group 

35 To help, I knew. When these had passed, 
I threw my glove to strike the last. 
Taking the chance : she did not start, 
Much less cry out, but stooped apart, 
One instant rapidly glanced round, 

40 And saw me beckon from the ground; 

A wild bush grows and hides my crypt; 
She picked my glove up while she stripped 
A branch off, then rejoined the rest 
With that; my glove lay in her breast. 

45 Then I drew breath: they disappeared: 
It was for Italy I feared. 



THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 317 

An hour, and she returned alone 
Exactly where my glove was thrown. 
Meanwhile came many thoughts ; on me 
Rested the hopes of Italy; ^o 

I had devised a certain tale 
Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail 
Persuade a peasant of its truth; 
I meant to call a freak of youth 
This hiding, and give hopes of pay, 55 

And no temptation to betray. 
But when I saw that woman's face. 
Its calm simplicity of grace, 
Our Italy's own attitude 

In which she walked thus far, and stood, so 

Planting each naked foot so firm, 
To crush the snake and spare the worm — 
At first sight of her eyes, I said, 
' ' I am that man upon whose head 
They fix the price, because I hate 65 

The Austrians over us: the State 
Will give you gold — oh, gold so mi^ch ! — 
If you betray me to their clutch, 
And be your death, for aught I know, 
If once they find you saved their foe. '^o 

Now, you must bring me food and drink, 
And also paper, pen, and ink, 
And carry safe what I shall write 
To Padua, which you'll reach at night 
Before the duomo shuts; go in, 75 

And wait till TenebraB begin; 
Walk to the third confessional, 



318 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Between the pillar and the wall, 

And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace? 

80 Say it a second time, then cease; 
And if the voice inside returns. 
From Christ and Freedom; ivhat concerns 
The cause of Peace? — for answer, slip 
My letter where you placed your lip ; 

85 Then come back happy we have done 
Our mother service — I, the son. 
As you the daughter of our land!'* 

Three mornings more, she took her stand 
In the same place, with the same eyes: 

90 I was no surer of sunrise 

Than of her coming. We conferred 

Of her own prospects, and I heard ^^ 

She had a lover — stout and tall. 

She said — then let her eyelids fall, 

95 ''He could do much" — as if some doubt 
Entered her heart, — then, passing out, 
''She could^not speak for others, who 
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:" 
And so she brought me drink and food. 

LOO After four days, the scouts pursued 
Another path ; at last arrived 
The help m}^ Paduan friends contrived 
To furnish me: she brought the news. 
For the first time I could not choose 

^05 But kiss her hand, and lay my own 

Upon her head — ''This faith was shown 
To Italy, our mother; she 



THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 319 

Uses my hand and blesses thee/' 

She followed down to the sea-shore; 

I left and never saw her more. no 

How very long since I have thought" 
Concerning — much less wished for — aught 
Beside the good of Italy, 
For which I live and mean to die ! 
I never w^as in love; and since ns 

Charles proved false, what shall now convince 
My inmost heart I have a friend? 
However, if I pleased to spend 
Real wishes on myself — say, three — 
I know at least what one should be. 120 

I would grasp Metternich until 
I felt his red wet throat distil 
In blood through these two hands. And next 
— Nor much for that am I perplexed — 
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, 125 

Should die slow of a broken heart 
Under his new employers. L^st 
— Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast 
Do I grow old and out of strength. 
If I resolved to seek at length iso 

My father's house again, how scared 
They all would look, and unprepared! 
My brothers live in Austria's pay 
— Disowned me long ago, men say; 
And all my early mates who used iss 

To praise me so — perhaps induced 
]More than one early step of mine — 



320 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Are turning wise : while some opine 
"Freedom grows license," some suspect 

140 "Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
They always said, such premature 
Beginnings never could endure ! 
So, with a sullen "All's for best," 
The land seems settling to its rest. 

145 I think then, I should wish to stand 
This evening in that dear, lost land, 
Over the sea the thousand miles, 
And know if yet that woman smiles 
With the calm smile; some little farm 

150 She lives in there, no doubt: what harm 
If I sat on the door-side bench. 
And, while her spindle made a trench 
Fantastically in the dust. 
Inquired of all her fortunes — just 

155 Her children's ages and their names, 
And what may be the husband's aims 
For each of them, I'd talk this out, 
And sit there, for an hour about. 
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay 

160 Mine on her head, and go my way. 

So much for idle wishing — how 
It steals the time ! To business now. 



'ROUND US THE WILD CREATURES" 321 



*' ROUND US THE WILD CREATURES" 

Round us the wild creatures, overhead the trees, 
Underfoot the moss-tracks, — hfe and love with these! 
I to wear a fawn-skin, thou to dress in flowers: 
All the long lone summer-day, that greenwood life of ours I 

Rich-pavilioned, rather, — still the world without, — 
Inside — gold-roofed silk-walled silence round about! 
Queen it thou on purple, — I, at watch and ward 
Couched beneath the columns, gaze, thy slave, love's 
guard ! 

So, for us no world ? Let throngs press thee to me ! 
Up and down amid men, heart by heart fare we! 
Welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, hateful face! 
God is soul, souls I and thou: with souls should souls 
have place. 



PROLOGUE TO ASOLANDO 

''The Poet's age is sad: for why? 

In youth, the natural world could show 
No common object but his eye 

At once involved with alien glow — 
His own soul's iris-bow. 

"And now a flower is just a flower: 

Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man — . 



322 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Simply themselves, uncinct by dower 

Of dyes which, when life's day began. 
Round each in glory ran." 

Friend, did you need an optic glass, 

Which were your choice ? A lens to drape 

In ruby, emerald, chrysopras. 
Each object — or reveal its shape 

Clear outlined, past escape. 

The naked very thing? — so clear 

That, when you had the chance to gaze, 

You found its inmost self appear 

Through outer seeming — truth ablaze. 

Not falsehood's fancy-haze? 

How many a year, my Asolo, 

Since — one step just from sea to land — ■ 

I found you, loved yet feared you so — 
For natural objects seemed to stand 

Palpably fire-clothed! No — 

No mastery of mine o'er these! 

Terror with beauty, like the Bush 
Burning but unconsumed. Bend knees. 

Drop eyes to earthward! Language? Tush! 
t Silence 't is awe decrees. 

And now? The lambent flame is — where? 

Lost from the naked world: earth, sky, 
Hill, vale, tree, flower, — Italia's rare 



SUMMUM BONUM 323 

O'er-running beauty crowds the eye — 
But flame? The Bush is bare. 

Hill, vale, tree, flower — they stand distinct, 
Nature to know and name. What tiien ? 

A Voice spoke thence which straight unlinked 
Fancy from fact: see, all's in ken: 

Has once my eyelid winked ? 

No, for the purged ear apprehends 

Earth's import, not the eye late dazed. 

The Voice said, ''Call my works thy friends! 
At Nature dost thou shrink amazed ? 

God is it who transcends." 



SUMMUM BONUM 

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of 
one bee: 
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of 
one gem: 
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the 
sea: 
Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — wonder, wealth, 
and — how far above them— 

Truth, that's l^righter than gem, 
Trust, that's purer than pearl, — 
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe — all were for me 
, In the kiss of one girl. 



324 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 



EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO 

/"kT the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time. 

When you set your fancies free, 
>\ill they pass to where — by death, fools think, im- 
prisoned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 
— Pity me? 



Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 

What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 
— Being — who ? 



One who never turned his back but marched breast for- 
ward, 
10 Never doubted clouds would break. 

Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would 

triumph, 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better. 
Sleep to wake. 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's worktime 
Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
15 Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
''Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight on, fare evev 
There as here!" 



325 



PIPPA PASSES 

A DRAMA 

PERSONS 

PippA. Jules. 

Ottima. Phene. 

Sebald. Austrian Police. 

Foreign Students. Bluphocks. 

Gottlieb. Luigi and his MotW 

Schramm. Poor Girls. 

MoNSiGNOR and his Attendants. 

■ introduction 

New Year's Day at Asolo in the Trevisan 

Scene. — A large mean airy chamber. A girl, Fipp\, 
from the Silk-mills, springing out of bed. 

Day! 

Faster and more fast, 

O'er night's brim, day boils at last: 

Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim 

Where spurting and suppressed it lay. 

For not a froth-flake touched the rim 

Of yonder gap in the solid gray 

Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; 



326 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, 
10 Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast 
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, than overflowed the 
world. 

Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, 

A mite of my twelve hours' treasure, 
15 The least of thy gazes or glances, 

(Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure) 

One of thy choices or one of thy chances, 

(Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) 

— My Day, if I squander such labour or leisure, 
^0 Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me! 

Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing. 
Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good — 
Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, 
As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood — - 

25 All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not 
As prosperous ones are treated, those who live 
At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot. 
In readiness to take what thou wilt give, 
And free to let alone what thou refusest; 

30 For, Day, my .holiday, if thou ill-usest 

INIe, who am only Pippa, — old-year's sorrow, 
Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow: 
Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow 
Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. 

35 All other men and women that this eaj-th 
Belongs to, who all days alike possess. 



PIPPA PASSES 327 

Make general plenty cure particular dearth, 

Get more joy one way, if another, less: 

Thou art my single day, God" lends to leaven 

What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,— 

Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's! 

Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones— 

And let thy morning rain on that superb 

Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb 

Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain 

Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane. 

He will but press the closer, breathe more warm 

Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm? 

And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom 

O'er Jules and Phene,— what care bride and groom 

Save for their dear selves? 'Tis their marriage-day; 

And while they leave church and go home their way, 

Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be 

Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee. 

Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve 

With mist,— will Luigi and his mother grieve— 

The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, 

She in her age, as Luigi in his youth. 

For true content ? The cheerful town, warm, close 

And safe, the sooner that thou art morose. 

Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak 

In storm at night on Monsignor, they make 

Such stir about,— whom they expect from Rome 

To visit Asolo, his brothers' home, 

And say here masses proper to release 

A soul from pain,— what storm dares hurt his peace ? 

Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward 



328 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Thy tW<ii/ider off, nor want the angels' guard. 

B'Jt Pjppa — just one such mischance would spoil 
70 Her day that lightens the next twelve-month's toil 

At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! 
And here I let time slip for naught! 

Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught 

With a single splash from my ewer! 
75 You that would mock the best pursuer, 

Was my basin over-deep? 

One splash of water ruins you asleep. 

And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits 

Wheeling and counterwheeling, 
80 Reeling, broken beyond healing: 

Now grow together on the ceiling! 

That will task your wits. 

Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see 

Morsel after morsel flee 
85 As merrily, as giddily . . . 

Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on. 

Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? 

Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon ? 

New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, 
90 Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll! 

Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple 

Of ocean, bud there, — fairies watch unroll 

Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse 

Thick red flame through that dusk green universe! 
95 I am queen of thee, floweret! 

And each fleshy blossom 

Preserve I not — (safer 

Than leaves that embower it. 



PIPPA PASSES 329 

Or shells that embosom) 

— From weevil and chafer? 

Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee; 

Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, 

Love thy queen, worship me! 

— Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, 

Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day? 

My morn, noon, eve and night — how spend my day ? 

To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, 

The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: 

But, this one day, I have leave to go, 

And play out my fancy's fullest games; 

I may fancy all day — and it shall be so — 

That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names 

Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo! 

See! Up the hill-side yonder, through the morning, 

Some one shall love me, as the world calls love: 

I am no less than Ottima, take warning! 

The gardens, and the great stone house above. 

And other house for shrubs, all glass in front. 

Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont. 

To court me, while old Luca yet reposes: 

And therefore, till the shrub-house door uncloses, 

I . . . what now ? — give abundant cause for prate 

About me — Ottima, I mean — of late, 

Tqo bold, too confident she'll still face down 

The spitefullest of talkers in our town. 

How we talk in the little town below! 

But love, love, love — there's better love, I know! 



330 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

This foolish love was only day's first offer; 

I choose my next love to defy the scoffer: 
130 For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally 

Out of Possagno church at noon? 

Their house looks over Orcana valley: 

Why should not I be the bride as soon 

As Ottima? For I saw, beside, 
135 Arrive last night that little bride — 

Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash 

Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, 

Blacker than all except the black eyelash; 

I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses! 
140 — So strict was she, the veil 

Should cover close her pale 

Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and scarce touch, 

Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such 

Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, 
145 As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature ? 

A soft and easy life these ladies lead: 

Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed. 

Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, 

Keep that foot its lady primness, 
15.0 Let those ankles never swerve 

From their exquisite reserve. 

Yet have to trip along the streets like me, 

All but naked to the knee! 

How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss 
155 So startling as her real first infant kiss ? 

Oh, no — not envy, this! 



PIPPA PASSES 331 

— Not envy, sure! — for if you gave me 

Leave to take or to refuse, 

In earnest, do you think I'd choose 

That sort of new love to enslave me? i^c 

Mine should have lapped me round from the beginnhig; 

As little fear of losing it as winning: 

Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, 

And only parents' love can last our lives. 

At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair, les 

Commune inside our turret: what prevents 

My being Luigi? While that mossy lair 

Of lizards through the winter-time is stirred 

With each to each imparting sweet intents 

For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird — j7c 

(For I observe of late, the evening walk 

Of Luigi and his mother, always ends 

Inside our ruined turret, where they talk. 

Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends) 

— Let me be cared about, kept out of harm, 175 

And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm; 

Let me be Luigi! If I only knew 

What was my mother's face — my father, too! 

Nay, if you come to that, best love of all 
Is God's; then why not have God's love befall iso 

Myself as, in the palace by the Dome, 
Monsignor? — who to-night will bless the home 
Of his dead brother; and God bless in turn 
That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn 
With love for all men! I, to-night at least, iss 

Would be that holy and beloved priest. 



332 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Now wait ! — even I already seem to share 

In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare? 

What other meaning do these verses bear ? 

iw All service ranks the same with God: 

If noiv, as formerly he trod 

Paradise, his ^presence fills 

Our earth, each only as God loills 

Can work — God's puppets, best and worst, 
< . Are we: there is no last nor first. 

Say not "a small event!" Why " smair f 
Costs it more pain that this, ye call , 

A '^ great event," shoidd come to pass. 
Than that? Unttvine me from the mass 
•00 Of. deeds which make up life, one deed 
Poiver shall fall short in or exceed! 

And more of it, and more of it! — oh yes — 

I will pass each, and see their happiness. 

And envy none — being just as great, no doubt 
io-, Useful to men, and dear to God, as they! 

A pretty thing to care about 

So mightily, this single holiday! 

But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine? 

— With thee to lead me, O Day of mine, 
210 Down the grass path gray with dew. 

Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs. 

Where the swallow never flew 

Nor yet cicala dared carouse — 

No, dared carouse! [She enters the street 



PIPPA PASSES 333 

I. — MORNING 

Scene. — Uj) the Hill-side, inside the Shrub-house. Luca's 
wife, Ottima, and her paramour, the German Sebald. 

Sebald [sings]. 

Let the watching lids ivink! 
Day's a-blaze with eyes, think! 
Deep into the night, drink! 

Ottima. Night ? Such may be your Rhinelaiid nights 
perhaps ; 
But this bloocl-red beam through the shutter's chink 
— We call such light, the morning: let us see! 
Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tall 
Naked geraniums straggle! Push the lattice 
Behind that frame! — Nay, do I bid you? — Sebald, 
It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course 
The slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content. 
Or must I find you something else to spoil ? 
Kiss and be friends, my Sebald ! Is 't full morning ? 
Oh, don't speak then! 

Sebald. Ay, thus it used to be. 

Ever your house was, I remember, shut 
Till mid-day; I observed that, as I strolled 
On mornings through the vale here; country girls 
Were noisy, washing garments in the brook, 
Plinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills: 
But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye. 
And wisely: you v>'ere plotting one thir.g there, 



334 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Nature, another outside. I looked up — 
Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars. 
Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. 
25 Oh, I remember! — and the peasants laughed 

And said, *'The old man sleeps with the young wife." 
This house w^as his, this chair, this window — his 

Ottima. Ah, the clear morning! I can see St. Mark's; 
That black streak is the belfry. Stop: Vicenza 
30 Should lie . . . there's Padua, plain enough, that blue! 
Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger! 

Sebald. Morning ? 

It seems to me a night with a sun added. 
Where's dew, where's freshness? That bruised plant, I 

bruised 
In getting through the lattice yestereve, 
35 Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark 
I' the dust o' the sill. 

Ottima. Oh, shut the lattice, pray! 

Sebald. Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here, 
Foul as the morn may be. 

There, shut the world out! 
How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curse 
40 The world and all outside! Let us throw elf 
This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let's out 
With all of it. 

Ottima. Best never speak of it. 

Sebald. Best speak again and yet again of it, 
Till words cease to be more than words. ''His blood," 
45 For instance — let those two words mean **His blood" 
fVnd nothing more. Notice, I'll say them now, 
*'His blood." 



PIPPA PASSES 2^^ 

Ottima. Assuredly if I repented 

The deed— 

Scbald. Repent? Who should repent, or why . 
What puts that in your head ? Did I once say 
That I repented? 

Ottima. No; I said the deed . . . 

Scbald. ''The deed" and ''the evenf'-just now it 

was 
-Our passion's fruit"-the devil take such cant! 
Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, 

I am his cut-throat, you are . . . 

,.,,. ^ Here's the wine; 

Ottima. 

I brought it when we left the house above 

And glasses too-wine of both sorts, Black? Wh.te 

then? ^^^, .. 

Scbald. But am not I his cut-throat? What are you / 
Ottima. There trudges on his business from thi^ 
Duomo 

Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood 

And bare feet; always in one place at church, 

Close under the stone wall by the south entry 

I used to take him for a brown cold piece 

Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose 

To let me pass— at first, I say, I used: 

Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me, 

I rather should account the plastered wall 

A piece of him, so chilly does it strike. 

This, Sebald? , ^. . , 

Scbald. No, the white wme— the white wine. 

W^ell, Ottima, I promised no new year 
Should rise on us the ancient shameful way; 



336 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes! 
Do you remember last damned New Year's day? 

Ottima. You brought those foreign prints. We looked 
at them 
Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme 
75 To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying 
Mis own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up 
To hunt them out. 

Sebalcl. 'Faith, he is not alive 

To fondle you before my face. 

Ottiina. Do you 

Fondle me then! Who means to take your life 
80 For that, my Sebald ? 

Sebald. Hark you, Ottima! 

One thing to guard against. We'll not make much 
One of the other — that is, not make more 
Parade of warmth, childish officious coil. 
Than yesterday: as if, sweet, I supposed i 

85 Proof upon proof were needed now, now first, ' 

To show I love you — ^yes, still love you — love you 
In spite of Luca and what's come to him 
— Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts, 
White sneering old reproachful face and all! 
90 We'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if 
We still could lose each other, were not tied 
By this: conceive you? 

Ottima. Love ! 

Sebald. Not tied so sure I 

Because though I was wrought upon, have struck 
His insolence back into him — am I 
05 So surely yours ? — therefore for ever yours ? 



PIPPA PASSES 337 

Ottima. Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another) 
Should we have — months ago, when first we loved. 
For instance that May morning we two stole 
Under the green ascent of sycamores — 

If we had come upon a thing like that loo 

Suddenly . . . 

Sebald. '*A thing" — there again — *'a thing!" 

Ottima. Then, Venus' body, had we come upon 
My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse 
Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close^ 
Would you have pored upon it ? Why persist 105 

In poring now upon it ? For 'tis here 
As much as there in the deserted house: 
You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me. 
Now he is dead I hate him worse: I hate . . . 
Dare you stay here ? I would go back and hold 110 

His two dead hands, and say, ''I hate you worse, 
Luca, than ..." 

Sebald. Off, off — take your hands off mine, 

'Tis the hot evening — off! oh, morning is it? 

Ottima. There's one thing must be done: you know 
what thing. 
Come in and help to carry. We may sleep 115 

Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night. 

Sebald. What w^ould come, think you, if we let him lie 
Just as he is ? Let him lie there until 
The angels take him ! He is turned by this 
Off from his face beside, as you will see. m 

Ottima. This dusty pane might serve for looking- 
glass. 
Three, four — four gray hairs! Is it so you said 



338 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

A plait of hair should wave across my neck ? 

No — this way. 

Sebald. Ottima, I would give your neck, 

125 Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, 

That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world 

So Luca lives again! — ay, lives to sputter 

His fulsome dotage on you — ^yes, and feign 

Surprise that I return at eve to sup, 
130 When all the morning I was loitering here — 

Bid me dispatch my business and begone. 

I would ... 

Ottima. See ! 

Sebald. No, I'll finish- Do you think 

I fear to speak the bare truth once I'or all ? 

All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fine 
135 To suffer; there's a recompense in guilt; 

One must be venturous and fortunate: 

What is one young for, else? In age we'll sigh 

O'er the wild reckless wicked days flown over; 

Still, we have lived: the vice was in its place. 
140 But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn 

His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse — 

Do lovers in romances sin that way? 

Why, I was starving when I used to call 

And teach you music, starving while you plucked me 
145 These flowers to smell! 

Ottima. My poor lost friend! 

Sebald. He gave me 

Life, nothing less: what if he did reproach 

My perfidy, and threaten, and do more — 

Had he no right ? What was to wonder at ? 



PIPPA PASSES 339 

He sat by us at table quietly: 

Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched ? iso 

Could he do less than make pretence to strike? 

'Tis not the crime's sake — I'd commit ten crimes 

Greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone! 

And you — O how feel you ? Feel you for me ? 

Ottima. Well then, I love you better now than ever, 155 
And best (look at me while I speak to you) — 
Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth, 
This mask, this simulated ignorance, 
This affectation of simplicity, 

Falls off our crime; this naked crime of ours leo 

May not now be looked over: look it down! 
Great? let it be great; but the joys it brought. 
Pay they or no its price ? Come : they or it 
Speak not! The past, would you give up the past 
Such as it is, pleasure and crime together? les 

Give up that noon I owned my love for you ? 
Tlie garden's silence: even the single bee 
Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped. 
And where he hid you only could surmise 
By some campanula chalice set a-swing. 170 

Who stammered — "Yes, I love you?" 

Sebald. And I drew 

Back; put far back your face with both my hands 
Lest you should grow too full of me — ^your face 
So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body! 

Ottima. And when I ventured to receive you here, i/s 

Made you steal hither in the mornings — 

Sebald. When 

I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here, 



340 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread 
To a yellow haze ? 

Ottima. Ah — my sign w^as, the sun 

itio inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree 
Nipped by the first frost. 

Sebald. You would always laugh 

At my wet boots: I had to stride thro' grass 
Over my ankles. 

Ottima. Then our crowning night! 

Sebald. The July night? 

Ottima. The day of it too, Sebald I 

185 When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat, 
Its black-blue canopy suffered descend 
Close on us both, to weigh down each to each. 
And smother up all life except our life. 
So lay we till the storm came. 

Sebald. How it came! 

190 Ottima. Buried in woods we lay, you recollect; 
Swift ran the searching tempest overhead; 
And ever and anon some bright white shaft 
Burned thro' the pine-tree roof, here burned and there. 
As if God's messenger thro' the close wood screen 
195 Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture. 
Feeling for guilty thee and me: then broke 
The thunder like a whole sea overhead — 

Sebald. Slower, Ottima I 

Do not lean on me! 

Ottima. Sebald, as we lay. 

Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die! 



PIPPA PASSES 341 

" Rig^lit to be punished ! Naught completes such bliss 200 

But woe!" Who said that? 

Scbald. How did we ever rise? 

Was't that we slept? Why did it end? 

Ottima. I felt you 

Taper into a point the ruffled ends 
Of niy loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips. 
My iiiir is fallen now: knot it again! 205 

Srbald. I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now! 
Thi.-i way? Will you forgive me — be once more 
My great queen ? 

Ottima. Bind it thrice about my brow; 

Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress, 
Magnificent in sin. Say that! 

Scbald. I crown you 210 

My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress. 
Magnificent . . . 

[From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing — 

The years at the sprijig 

And day's at the morn; 

Morning s at seven; 215 

The hill-side s deiv-pearled; 

The lark's on the wing; 

The snail's on the thorn: 

God's in his heaven — 

AWs right ivith the ivorld! 



[Pippa passes. 

Sebald. God's in his heaven! Do you hear that? 
Who spoke ? 



220 



342 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

You, you spoke! 

Ottima. Oh — that little ragged girl! 

She must have rested on the step: we give them 
But this one holiday the whole year round. 
225 Did you ever see our silk-mills — their inside ? 
There are ten silk-mills now belong to you. 
She stoops to pick my double heartsease , . Sh! 
She does not hear: call you out louder! 

Sebald. Leave mei 

Go, get your clothes on — dress those shoulders ! 

Ottima. Sebald ? 

230 Sebald. Wipe off that paint! I hate you. 

Ottima. INIiserable! 

Sebald. My God, and she is emptied of it now! 
Outright now! — how miraculously gone 
All of the grace — had she not strange grace once? 
Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes, 
235 No purpose holds the features up together, 
Only the cloven brow and puckered chin 
Stay in their places: and the very hair, 
That seemed to have a sort of life in it, 
Drops, a dead web! 

Ottima. Speak to me — not of me. 

2J0 Sebald. That round great full-orbed face, where i.ot 
an angle 
Brohe the delicious indolence — all broken! 

Ottima. To me — not of me! Ungrateful, })crJLnc{l 
cheat ! 
A coward too: but ingrate's worse than all! 
Beggar — my slave — a fawning, cringing lie! 
245 Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift! 



PIPPA PASSES 343 

A lie that walks and eats and drinks!. 

Sebald. My God! 

Those morbid olive faultless shoulder-blades — 
I should have known there was no blood beneath! 

Ottima. You hate me then ? You hate me then ? 

Sebald. To think 

She would succeed in her absurd attempt, 25. 

And fascinate by sinning, show herself 
Superior — guilt from its excess superior 
To innocence! That little peasant's voice 
Has righted all again. Though I be lost, 
I know which is the better, never fear, 25s 

Of vice or virtue, purity or lust. 
Nature or trick! I see what I have done, 
Entirely now! Oh I am proud to feel 
Such torments— let the world take credit thence— 
I, having done my deed, pay too its price! 2* 

I hate, hate— curse you! God's in his heaven! 

Otiima. —Me! 

Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself— kill me! 
Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me— then 
Yourself— then— presently— first hear me speak 
I always meant to kill myself— wait, you! ^ 

Lean on my breast — not as a breast; don't love me 
The more because you lean on me, my own 
Heart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently! 
Sebald. My brain is drowned now— quite drowned: 
all I feel 
Is . . . is, at swift-recurring intervals, 270 

A hurry-down within me, as of waters 
Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit: 



344 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

There they go — whirls from a black fiery sea ! 
Ottima, Not me — to him, O God, be merciful I 



Talk hy the way, while Pippa is passing fr-om the hill-side 
to Orcana. Foreign Students of painting and sculp- 
ture, from Venice, assembled opposite the house of 
Jules, a young French statuary, at Possagno. 

1st Student. Attention! My own post is beneath this 
window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide three 
or four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm and 
his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five — who's a 

s defaulter? We want everybody, for Jules must not be 
suffered to hurt his bride when the jest 's found out. 

2nd Student. All here! Only our poet's away — never 
having much meant to be present, moonstrike him ! The 
airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino! He was in violent 

10 love with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his 
suit, so unmolested was it, — when suddenly a woman falls 
in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy he takes 
himself off to Trieste, immortal poem and all : whereto is 
this prophetical epitaph appended already, as Bluphocks 

15 assures me, — "Here a mammoth-poem lies, Fouled to death 
by butterflies." His own fault, the simpleton! Instead 
of cramp couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he 
should write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligi- 
bly. — Msculapius, an Epic. Catalogue of the drugs: 

20 Hebe's plaister — One strip Cools your lip. Phoebus* 
emulsion — One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's 
bolus — One box Cures . . . 



PIPPA PASSES 345 

Srd Student. Subside, my fine fellow! If the marriage 
was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a 
minute with his bride. 

2nd Student. Good! — only, so should the poet's muse 
have been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks, et 
canihus 7iostris . . . and Delia not better known to our 
literary dogs than the boy Giovacchino! 

1,9^ Student. To the point now. Where's Gottlieb, 
the new-comer ? Oh, — listen, Gottlieb, to what has called 
down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which 
we now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are all 
agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst out 
on us in a fury by and by: I am spokesman — the verses 
that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche — 
but each professes himself alike insulted by this strutting 
stone-squarer, who came alone from Paris to Munich, 
and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagno 
here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again — oh, alone 
indubitably! — to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, take 
up his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartless 
bunglers ! — so he was heard to call us all: now, is Schramm 
brutalized, I should like to know ? Am I heartless ? 

Gottlieb. Why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose Jules 
a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere cox- 
combry, you will have brushed off — what do folks style 
it? — the bloom of his life. 

Is it too late to alter ? These love-letters now, you call 
his — I can't laugh at them. 

4th Student. Because you never read the sham letters 
of our inditing which drew forth these. 

Gottlieb. His discovery of the truth will be frightful. 



346 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Ath Student. That's the joke. But you should have 

55 joined us at the beginning : there's no doubt he loves the 
girl — loves a model he might hire by the hour ! 

Gottlieb. See here! "He has been accustomed," he 
writes, *'to have Canova's women about him, in stone, 
and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these being 

60 as much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration: 
but now he is to have the reality." There you laugh 
again! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth. 

1st Student. Schramm! (Take the pipe out of his 
mouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose the bloom of his 

65 youth? 

Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this 
world: look at a blossom — it drops presently, having done 
its service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and 
where would be the blossom's place could it continue? 

70 As well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body, 
because its earliest favourite, whatever it may have first 
loved to look on, is dead and done with — as that any af- 
fection is lost to the soul when its first object, whatever 
happened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course. 

75 Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the 
mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! Has 
a man done wondering at women? — there follow men, 
dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at 
men? — there's God to wonder at: and the faculty of won- 

80 der may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with 
respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh suffi- 
ciently, so far as concerns its novel one. Thus . . . 

1^^ Student. Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again ! 
There, you see! Well, this Jules ... a wretched fribble 



PIPPA PASSES 347 

— oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the other sy 
day ! Canova's gallery — ^}"oii know : there he marches first 
resolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouch- 
safing an eye: all at once he stops full at the Psiche- 
fanciulla — cannot pass that old acquaintance without a 
nod of encouragement — ''In your new place, beauty? so 
Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich — I see 
you!" Next he posts himself deliberately before the un- 
finished Pietd for half an hour without moving, till up he 
starts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into — I say, 
into — the group; by which gesture you are informed that 95 
precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered i:i 
Canova's practice was a certain method of using the drill 
in the articulation of the knee-joint — and that, likewise, 
has he mastered at length! Good-bye, therefore, to poor 
Canova — whose gallery no longer needs detain his sue- 100 
cessor Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble! 

bill Student, Tell him about the women: go on to the 
women 1 

1st Student. Why, on that matter he could never be 
supercilious enough. How should we be other (he said) 10s 
than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we 
cherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least: 
he would wait, and love only at the proper time, and 
meanwhile put up with the Psiche-fanciulla. Now, I 
happened to hear of a young Greek — real Greek girl i^t 110 
Malamocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's 
**hair like sea-moss" — Schramm knows! — white and quiet 
as an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest, — a 
dau'^hter of Natalia, so she swears, — that hag Natalia, 
who helps us to models at three lire an hour. We selected iis 



348 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules received 
a scented letter — somebody had seen his Tydeus at the 
Academy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profound 
admirer bade him persevere — would make herself known 

120 to him ere long. (Paolina, my little friend of the Fenice, 
transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the mysterious 
correspondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms — 
the pale cheeks, the black hair — whatever, in short, had 
struck us in our Malamocco model : we retained her name 

125 too — Phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, 
think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the herd 
of us by such a creature ! In his very first answer he pro- 
posed marrying his monitress: and fancy us over these 
letters, two, three times a day, to receive and dispatch! 

130 I concocted the main of it: relations were in the way — 
secrecy must be observed — in fine, would he wed her on 
trust, and only speak to her when they were indissolubly 
united? St — st — Here they come! 

6^/i Stude7if. Both of them! Heaven's love, speak 

135 softly, speak within yourselves! 

5th Student. Look at the bridegroom ! Half his hair 
in storm and half in calm, — patted down over the left 
temple, — like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it: and 
the same old blouse that he murders the marble in. 

140 2nd Student. Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal 
Scratchy! — rich, that your face may the better set it off. 

Qth Student. And the bride! Yes, sure enough, our 
Phene ! Should you have known her in her clothes ? 
How magnificently pale! 

145 Gottlieb. She does not also take it for earnest, I hope ? 



PIPPA PASSES 349 

1,9^ Student. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is ! We settle 
v\'ith Natalia. 

&h Student. She does not speak — has evidently let 
out no word. The only thing is, will she equally remem- 
ber the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those iso 
verses which are to break the secret to Jules ? 

Gottlieb. How he gazes on her ! Pity — pity ! 

1st Student. They go in: now, silence! You three, — ■ 
not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate: 
just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us 155 
singing, is seated! 

II. — NOON 

Scene. — Ovei- Orcana. The house of Jules, who crosses 
its threshold with Phene: she is silent, on which 
Jules begins — 

Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, you 

Are mine now; let fate reach me how she likes, 

If you '11 not die: so, never die! Sit here — 

My work-room's single seat. I over-lean 

This length of hair and lustrous front; they turn 5 

Like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, last 

Your chin — no, last your throat turns : 't is their scent 

Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, look ever 

This one way till I change, grow you — I could 

Change into you, beloved! 

You by me, 10 

And I by you; this is your hand in mine, 
And side by side we sit: all 's true. Thank God! 



350 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

I have spoken: speak you! 

O my life to come! 

My Tydeus must be carved that's there in clay; 
15 Yet how be carved, with you about the room ? 

Where must I place you ? When I think that once 

This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven 

W'ithout you! Shall I ever work again, 

Get fairly into my old ways again, 
» Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait, 

My hand transfers its lineaments to stone? 

Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth — 

The live truth, passing and repassing me. 

Sitting beside me ? 

Now speak! 

Only first, 
25 See, all your letters! Was 't not well contrived? 

Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keeps 

Your letters next her skin : which drops out foremost ? 

Ah, — this that swam down like a first moonbeam 

Into my world! 

Again those eyes complete 
30 Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow, 

Of all my room holds; to return and rest 

On me, with pity, yet some wonder too: 

As if God bade some spirit plague a world. 

And this were the one moment of surprise 
35 And sorrow while she took her station, pausing 

O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy! 

What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of; 

Let your first word to me rejoice them, too: 

This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red 



PIPPA PASSES 351 

Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe- 
Read this line . . . no, shame — Homer's be the Greek 
First breathed me from the hps of my Greek girl ! 
This Odyssey in coarse black vivid type 
With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page, 
To mark great places with due gratitude; 
''He said and on Antinous directed 
A hitter shaft'' ... a flower blots out the rest! 
Again upon your search ? My statues, then ! 
— Ah, do not mind that — better that will look 
When cast in bronze — an Almaign Kaiser, that. 
Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip. 
This, rather, turn to ! What, unrecognized ? 
I thought you would have seen that here you sit 
As I imagined you, — Hippolyta, 
Naked upon her bright Numidian horse. 
Recall you this then? "Carve in bold rehef" — 
So you commanded — ''carve, against I come, 
A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was. 
Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free. 
Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch. 
'Praise those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests, 
'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves 
As erst above our champion: stand up all!'" 
See, I have laboured to express your thought. 
Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms, 
(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides. 
Only consenting at the branch's end 
They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face, 
The Praiser's, in the centre: who with eyes 
Sightless, so bend they back to light inside 



352 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

His brain where visionary forms throng up, 

Sings, minding not that palpitating arch 

(Jf hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine 

From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off^ 
73 Violet and parsley crowns to trample on — 

Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, 

Devoutly their unconquerable hymn. 

But you must say a "well" to that — say ''well!" 

Because you gaze — am I fantastic, sweet? 
80 Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble — marbly 

Even to the silence! Why, before I found 

The real flesh Phene, I inured myself 

To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff 

For better nature's birth by means of art: 
85 With me, each substance tended to one form 

Of beauty — to the human archetype. 

On every side occurred suggestive germs 

Of that — the tree, the flower — or take the fruit, — 

Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, 
90 Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs, 

Depending, nestled in the leaves; and just 

From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang. 

But of the stuffs one can be master of. 

How I divined their capabilities! 
95 P>om the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk 

That yields your outline to the air's embrace, 

Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom; 

Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure 

To cut its one confided thought clean out 
«o Of all the world. But marble! — 'neath my tools 

^lore pliable than jelly — as it were 



PIPPA PASSES 353 

Some clear primordial creature dug from depths 
In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself, 
And whence all baser substance may be w^orked; 
Refine it off to air, you may, — condense it 
Down to the diamond; — is not metal there, 
When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips ? 
— Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach. 
Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep? 
Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised 
By the swift implement sent home at once. 
Flushes and glowings radiate and hover 
About its track? 

Phene? what — why is this? 
That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes! 
Ah, you will die — I knew that you would die! 

Phene begins-, on his having long remained silent. 

Now the end's coming; to be sure, it must 

Have ended sometime! Tush, why need I speak 

Their foolish speech ? I cannot bring to mind 

One-half of it, beside; and do not care 

For old Natalia now, nor any of them. 

Oh you — what are you ? — if I do not try 

To say the words Natalia made me learn, 

To please your friends,— it is to keep myself 

Where your voice lifted me, by letting that 

Proceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps, ] 

Cannot take up, now you have once let fall, 

The music's life, and me along with that — 

No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are: 



854 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Above the world. 

You creature with the eyes! 

130 If I could look for ever up to them, 
As now you let me, — I believe, all sin, 
All memory of wrong done, suffering borne. 
Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth 
Whence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay 

i35 — Never to overtake the rest of me, 
All that, unspotted, reaches up to 'you. 
Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself. 
Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink, 
Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so, 

uo Above the world! 

But you sink, for your eyes 
Are altering — altered! Stay — **I love you, love" . . . 
I could prevent it if I understood: 
More of your words to me: was 't in the tone 
Or the words, your power? 

Or stay — I will repeat 

145 Their speech, if that contents you! Only change 
No more, and I shall find it presently 
Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up. 
Natalia threatened me that harm should follow 
Unless I spoke their lesson to the end, 

150 But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you. 
Your friends, — Natalia said they were your friends 
And meant you well, — because, I doubted it, 
Observing (what was very strange to see) 
On every face, so different in all else, 

155 The same smile girls like me are used to bear. 
But never men, men cannot stoop so low; 



PIPPA PASSES 355 

Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile. 

That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit 

Which seems to take possession of the world 

And make of God a tame confederate, leo 

Purveyor to their appetites . . . you know! 

But still Natalia said they were your friends, 

And they assented though they smiled the more, 

And all came round me, — that thin Englishman 

With light lank hair seemed leader of the rest; i65 

He held a paper — ''What we want," said he, 

Ending some explanation to his friends — 

*'Is something slow, involved and mystical. 

To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste 

And lure him on until, at innermost no 

Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find — this! 

— As in the apple's core, the noisome fly: 

For insects on the rind are seen at once. 

And brushed aside as soon, but this is found 

Only when on the lips or loathing tongue." 175 

And so he read what I have got by heart: 

I'll speak it, — "Do not die, love! I am yours." 

No — is not that, or 'like that, part of words 

Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose 

What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right? iso 

/ am a 'painter who cannot paint; 

In my life, a devil rather than saint; 

In my brain, as poor a creature too: 

No end to all I cannot do! 

Yet do one thing at least I can — iss 

Love a man or hate a man 



356 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Supremely: thus my lore began. 

Through the Valley of Love I went, 

In the lovingest spot to abide, 
ISO And just on the verge where I pitched my tent, 

I found Hate dwelling beside. 

(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant, 

Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!) 

And further, I traversed Haters grove, 
^^^ In the hatefullest nook to dwell; 

But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love 

Where the shadow threefold fell. 

{The meaning — those black bi'ide's-ryrs above, 

Not a painter's lip shoidd tell!) 

200 "And here/' said he, "Jules probably will ask, 

'You have black eyes. Love, — you are, sure enough, 
My peerless bride, — then do you tell indeed 
What needs some explanation! What means this?' " 
— And I am to go on, without a word — 

205 So, I grew ivise in Love and Hate, 

From simple that I was of late* 
Once ivhen I loved, I would enlace 
Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face 
Of her I loved, in one embrace — 

210 As if by mere love I could love immensely! 

Once, when I hated, I would plunge 
My sword, and wipe with the first lunge 
My foe's whole life out like a sponge — 
As if by mere hate I coidd hate intensely! 

■2^^ But now I am iviser, know better the fashion 



PIPPA PASSES 357 

How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion: 

And if I see cause to love more, hate more 

Than ever man loved, ever hated before — 

And seek in the Valley of Love, 

The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove, 

Where my soul may surely reach 

The essence, naught less, of each, 

The Hate of all Hates, the Love 

Of all Loves, in the Valley or Grove, — 

J find them the very warders 

Each of the other s borders. 

When I love most, Love is disguised 

Tn Hate; and ivhen LLate is surprised 

Ln Love, then I hate most: ask 

How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque. 

Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask, — 

And how, having hated thee, 

I sought long and painfully 

To reach thy heart, nor prick 

The skin but pierce to the quick — 

Ask this, my J ides, and be answered straight 

By thy bride — how the painter Lutwyche can hate! 

Jules interposes 

Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt, 
Hated me: they at Venice — presently 

Their turn, however! You I shall not meet: , 

If I dreamed, saying this would wake me. 

Keep 
What's here, the gold — we cannot meet again, 



358 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Consider! and the money was but meant 

For two years' travel, which is over now, 
245 All chance or hope or care or need of it. 

This — and what comes from selling these my casts 

And books and medals, except ... let them go 

Together, so the produce keeps you safe 

Out of Natalia's clutches! If by chance 
250 (For all's chance here) I should survive the gang 

At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, 

We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide. 

[From without is heard the voice o/Pippa, singing — 

Give her hut a least excuse to love me! 

When — where — 
2.55 HoiD — can this arm establish her above me, 

If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 

There already, to eternally reprove me? 

{" Histy — said Kate the Queeii; 

But ** O/i.'" — cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 
2«o '"Tis only a page that cards unseen, 

Crumbling your hounds their messes!") 

Is she wronged? — To the rescue of her honour, 

My heart! 

Is she poor? — What costs it to be styled a donor? 
265 Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her! 

{"Nay, list!" — bade Kate the Queen; 

And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, 

'"T is only a page that carols unseen 
270 Fitting your hawks their jesses!") 

[PippA passes. 



PIPPA PASSES 359 

Jules resumes 

What name was that the Httle girl sang forth ? 

Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced 

The crown of Cyprus to be lady here 

At Asolo, where still her memory stays, 

And peasants sing how once a certain page 275 

Pined for the grace of her so far above 

His power of doing good to, ''Kate the Queen — 

She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed, 

"Need him to help her!" 

Yes, a bitter thing 
To see our lady above all need of us; 280 

Yet so we look ere we will love; not I, 
But the world looks so. If whoever loves 
Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper. 
The blessing or the blest one, queen or page, 
Why should we always choose the page's part? 28? 

Here is a woman with utter need of me, — 
I find myself queen here, it seems! 

How strange! 
Look at the woman here with the new soul, 
Like my own Psyche, — fresh upon her lips 
Alit, the visionary butterfly, 290 

Waiting my word to enter and make bright, 
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. 
This body had no soul before, but slept 
Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free 
From taint or foul with stain, as outward things 295 

Fastened their image on its passiveness: 
Now, it will wake, feel, live — or die again! 



360 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Shall to produce form out of unsliaped stuff 
Be Art — and further, to evoke a soul 
300 From form be nothing? This new soul is mine! 

Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do ? — save 
A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death 
Without me, from their hooting. Oh, to hear 
God's voice plain as I heard it first, before 

305 They broke in with their laughter! I heard them 
Henceforth, not God. 

To Ancona — Greece — some isle! 
I wanted silence only; there is clay 
Everywhere. One may do whate'er one likes 
In Art: the only thing is, to make sui»e 

310 That one does like it — which takes pains to know. 
Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad dream! 
Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends. 
What the whole world except our love — my own, 
Own Phene? But I told you, did I not, 

315 Ere night we travel for your land — some isle 
With the sea's silence on it ? Stand aside — 
I do but break these paltry models up 
To begin Art afresh. ]\Ieet Lutwyche, I — 
And save him from my statue meeting him ? 

320 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! 

Like a god going through his world, there stands 
One mountain for a moment in the dusk. 
Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow: 
And you are ever by me while I gaze 

325 — Are in my arms as now — as now — as now! 
Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! 
Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas ! 



PIPPA PASSES 361 

Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from Orcana to 
the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police 
loitering with Bluphocks, an English vagabond, 
just in view of the Turret. 

Bluphocks. So, that is your Pippa, the little girl who 
passed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's 
money shall be honestly earned: — now, don't make me 
that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into the 
business; we know he can have nothing to do with such i 
horrors : we know that he is a saint and all that a bishop 
should be, who is a great man beside. Oh were hut every 
worm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every hough a Christmas 
faggot, Every tune a jig! In fact, I have abjured all re- 
ligions; but the last I inclined to, was the Armenian: for k 
I have travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia 
Improper (so styled because there 's a sort of bleak hungry 
sun there), you might remark over a venerable house-porch, 
a certain Chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, a mere 
glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of every is 
bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all; the 
young and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the aged 
and decrepit, with' a sensible alacrity: 't was the Grand 
Rabbi's abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost no 
time in learning Syriac — (these are vowels, you dogs — 20 
follow my stick's end in the mud — Celarent, Darii, Ferio!) 
and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand, 
a, b, c, — I picked it out letter by letter, and what was the 
purport of this miraculous posy ? Some cherished legend 
of the past, you'll say — "How Moses hocus-pocussed 25 
Egypt's land with fly and locust,'' — or, ''How to Jonah 
sounded harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish," — or, 



362 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

'' Hoio the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass retwned 
a salaam." In no wisef '' Shackabrack — Boach — some- 
30 body or other — Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex- 
chan-ger of — Stolen Goods!'' So, talk to me of the religion 
of a bishop! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop 
Beveridge — mean to live so — and die — As some Greek dog- 
sage, dead and merry, Hell ward bound in Charon's wherry 
35 With food for both worlds, under and upper, Lupine-seed and, 
Hecate's supper, and never an obolus . . . (Though 
thanks to you, or this Intendant through you, or this 
Bishop th^-ough his Intendant — I possess a burning pocket- 
ful of zwanzigers) . . . To pay the Stygian Ferry! 
40 1st Policeman. There is the girl, then; go and deserve 
them the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi 
and his mother. [To the rest.] I have been noticing a 
house yonder, this long while : not a shutter unclosed since 
morning ! 
45 2nd Policeman. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk- 
mills here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, 
says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes 
again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set 
his wife to playing draughts. Never molest such a house- 
so hold, they mean well. 

Bluphocks. Only, cannot you tell me something of this 
little Pippa, I must have to do with? One could make 
something of • that name. Pippa — that is, short for 
Felippa — rhyming to Panurge consults Hertrippa — Be- 
55 lievest thou King Agrippaf Something might be done 
with that name. 

2nd Policeman. Put into rhyme that your head and a 
ripe musk-melon would not be dear at half a zwanziger! 



PIPPA PASSES 363 

Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon 's over or 
nearly so. 

3rd Policeman. Where in this passport of Signor Luigi 
does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? 
There ? What 's there beside a simple signature ? (That 
English fool's busy watching.) 

2nd Policeman. Flourish all round — "Put all possible 
obstacles in his way;** oblong dot at the end — ''Detain 
him till further advices reach you;" scratch at bottom— 
"Send him back on pretence of some informality in the 
above;" ink-spirt on right-hand side (which is the case 
here) — ** Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I don't 
concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if 
Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for Vienna — well and 
good, the passport deposed with us for our visa is really for 
his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and he 
means well ; but let him stay over to-night — ther^ has been 
the pretence we suspect, the accounts of his correspouv^ing 
and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, 
we arrest him at once, to-morrow comes Venice, and 
presently Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure 
enough ! That is he, entering the turret with his mother, 
no doubt. 

III. — EVENING 

Scene. — Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo. Luigi 

and his Mother entering. 
Mother. If there blew wind, you 'd hear a long, sigh, 

easing 
The utmost heaviness of music's heart. 



264 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Luigi. Here in the archway? 

Mother. Oh no, no — in farther, 

VVhere the echo is made, on the ridge. 

Luigi. Here surely, then. 

^ How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up! 
Hark — "Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voice 
Whose body is caught and kept by . . . what are those ? 
Mere withered wall flowers, waving overhead ? 
They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair 
10 That lean out of their topmost fortress — look 
And listen, mountain men, to what we say, 
Hand under chin of each grave earthy face. 
Up and show faces all of you! — ''All of you!" 
That's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz, 
15 Come dow^n and meet your fate? Hark — ''Meet your 
fate!" 

Mother. Let him not meet it, my Luigi — do not 
Go t^ nis City! Putting crime aside, 
Half of these ills of Italy are feigned: 
Your Pellicos and writers for effect, , 

20 Write for effect. 

Luigi. Hush! Say A writes, and B. 

Mother. These A's and B's write for effect, I say. 
Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good 
Is silent; you hear each petty injury. 
None of his virtues; he is old beside, 
25 Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why 
Do A and B not kill him themselves ? 

Luigi. They teach 

Others to kill him — me — and, if I fail, 
Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed, 



PIPPA PASSES 365 

I could not teach that: mine 's the lesser task. 
Mother, they visit night by night . . . 

Mother. — You, Luigi? 

Ah, will you let me tell you what you are ? 

Luigi. Why not ? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint, 
You may assure yourself I say and say 
Ever to myself! At times — nay, even as now 
We sit — I think my mind is touched, suspect 
All is not sound: but is not knowing that, 
What constitutes one sane or otherwise ? 
I know I am thus — so, all is right again. 
I laugh at myself as through the town I walk, 
And see men merry as if no Italy 
Were suffering; then I ponder — **I am rich, 
Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me. 
More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble. 
No, trouble 's a bad word: for as I walk 
There 's springing and melody and giddiness, 
And old quaint turns and passages of my youth, 
Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves, 
Return to me — whatever may amuse me: 
And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven 
Accords with me, all things suspend their strife. 
The very cicala laughs "There goes he, and there! 
Feast him, the time is short; he is on his way 
For the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!' 
And in return for all this, I can trip 
Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go 
This evening, mother! 

Mother. But mistrust yourself — 

Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him! 



366 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Luigi. Oh, there I feel — am sure that I am right! 
Mother. Mistrust your judgment then, of the mere 
means 
60 To this wild enterprise. Say, you are right, — ■ 
How should one in your state e'er bring to pass 
What w^ould require a cool head, a cold heart, 
And a calnl hand? You never will escape. 

Luigi. Escape? To even wish that, would spoil all. 
65 The dying is best part of it. Too much 
Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine. 
To leave myself excuse for longer life: 
Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy, 
That I might finish with it ere my fellows 
75 Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay? 
1 was put at the board-head, helped to all 
At first; I rise up happy and content. 
God must be glad one loves his world so much. 
I can give news of earth to all the dead 
70 Who ask me: — last year's sunsets, and great stars 
Which had a right to come first and see ebb 
The crimson wave that drifts the sun away — 
Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims 
That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood, 
80 Impatient of the azure — and that day 

In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm — 
May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights — 
Gone are they, but I have them in my soul! 
Mother. (He will not go!) 

Luigi. You smile at me? 

'T is true, — 
8s Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness, 



PIPPA PASSES 367 

Environ my devotedness as quaintly 

As round about some antique altar wreathe 

The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls. 

Mother. See now: you reach the city, you must cross 
His threshold — how ? 

Luigi. Oh, that 's if we conspired! so 

Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess — 
But guess not how the qualities most fit 
For such an office, qualities I have, 
Would little stead me, otherwise employed. 
Yet prove of rarest merit only here. 95 

Every one knows for what his excellence 
Will serve, but no one ever will consider 
For what his worst defect might serve: and yet 
Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder 
In search of a distorted ash? — I find 100 

The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow. 
Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man 
Arriving at the palace on my errand! 
No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up — 
White satin here, to set off my black hair; 105 

In I shall march — for you may watch your life out 
Behind thick walls, make friends there to betray you; 
More than one man spoils everything. March straight — 
Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for. 

Take the great gate and walk (not saunter) on "o 

Thro' guards and guards — I have rehearsed it all 
Inside the turret here a hundred times. 
Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe! 
But where they cluster thickliest is the door 
Of doors; they '11 let you pass — they '11 never blab i^s 



368 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Each to the other, he knows not the favourite, 
Whence he is bound and what 's his business now. 
Walk in — straight up to him; you have no knife: 
Be prompt, how should he scream ? Then out with you ! 

120 Italy, Italy, my Italy! 

You 're free, you 're free! Oh mother, I could dream 
They got about me — Andrea from his exile. 
Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave! 

Mother. Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism 

125 The easiest virtue for a selfish man 

To acquire : he loves himself — and next, the world — 
If he must love beyond, — but naught between: 
As a short-sighted man sees naught midway 
His body and the sun above. But you 

130 Are my adored Luigi, ever obedient 

To my least wish, and running o'er with love: 
I could not call you cruel or unkind. 
Once more, your ground for killing him!— then go! 
Luigi. Now do you try me, or make sport of me ? 

135 How first the Austrians got these provinces . . . 
(If that is all, I '11 satisfy you soon) 
— Never by conquest but by cunning, for 
That treaty whereby ... 
Mother. ' Well ? 

Luigi. ■ (Sure, he 's arrived. 

The tell-tale cuckoo: spring's his confidant, 

140 And he lets out her April purposes!) 

Or . . . better go at once to modern time, 
He has . . . they have ... in fact, I understand 
But can't restate the matter; that 's my boast: 
Others could reason it out to you, and prove 



PIPPA PASSES 369 

Things they have made me feel. 

Mother. Why go to-night ? ur, 

Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now 
A morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi! 

Luigi. ' * I am the bright and morning-star," saith God — 
And, "to such an one I give the morning-star." 
The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's gift iso 

Of the morning-star? 

Mother. Chiara will love to see 

That Jupiter an evening-star next June. 

Luigi. True, mother. Well for those who live through 
June! 
Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pomps 
That triumph at the heels of June the god 155 

Leading his revel through our leafy world. 
Yes, Chiara will be here. 

Mother. In June: remember, 

Yourself appointed that month for her coming. . 

Luigi. Was that low noise the echo? 

Mother. The night-w^ind. 

She must be grown — with her blue eyes upturned I80 

As if life were one long and sweet surprise: 
In June she comes. 

Luigi. We were to see together 

The Titian at Treviso, There, again! 

[From without is heard the voice of Pippa, singing — 

A king lived long ago, 

In the morning of the world, les 

When earth was nigher heaven than now. 



370 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

And the king^s locks curled, 

Disparting o'er a forehead full 

As the milk-white space Hioixt horn and horn 
170 Of some sacrificial hull — 

Only calm as a babe new-born: 

For he was got to a sleepy mood, 

So safe from all decrepitude, 

Age with its bane, so sure gone by, 
175 {The gods so loved him while he dreamed) 

That, having lived thus long, there seemed 

No need the king should ever die. 

Luigi. No need that sort of king should ever die! 

Am^ng the rocks his city was: 

180 Before his palace, in the sun, 

He sat to see his people pass, 
And judge them every one 
From its threshold of smooth stone. 
They haled him many a valley-thief 

aas Caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief 

Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat, 
Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found 
On the sea-sand left aground; 
And sometimes clung about his feet, 

190 With bleeding lid and burning cheek, 

A wom,an, bitterest wrong to speak 
Of one with sullen thickset brows: 
And sometimes from the prison-house 
The angry priests a pale wretch brought, 

i«5 Who through some chink had pushed and pressed 



PIPPA PASSES 371 

On knees and elbows, belly and breast, 

Worm-like into the temple, — caught 

He ivas by the very god, 

Who ever in the darkness strode 

Backward and forward, keeping watch 200 

O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch! 

These, all and every one. 

The king judged, sitting in the sun. 

Luigi. That king should still judge sitting in the sun! 

His councillors, on left and right, 205 

Looked anxious up, — but no surprise 

Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes 

Where the very blue had turned to white. 

'T is said, a Python scared one day 

The breathless city, till he came, 210 

With forky tongue and eyes on flame, 

Where the old king sat to judge alway; 

But when he saw the sweepy hair 

Girt with a croivn of berries rare 

Which the god will hardly give to wear 215 

To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare 

In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights, 

At his wondrous forest rites, — 

Seeing this, he did not dare 

Approach that thresJwld in the sun, 220 

Assault the old king smiling there. 

Such grace had kings when the world begun! 

[PiPPA passes. 



372 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Luigi. And such grace have they, now that the world 
ends! 
The Python at the city, on the throne, 
225 And brave men, God would crown for slaying him, 
Lurk in bye-corners lest they fall his prey. 
Are crowns yet to be won in this late time, 
Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach? 
*T is God's voice calls; how could I stay? Farewelll 

Talk htj the loay, while Pippa is passing from the Turret 
to the Bishop's Brc^hers House, close to the Duomo 
S. Maria. Poor Girls sitting on the steps. 

1st Girl. There goes a swallow to Venice — the stout 
seafarer! 
Seeing those birds fly, makes one wash for wings. 
Let us all wish; you wish first! 

2nd Girl. I ? This sunset 

To finish. 

3rd Girl. That old — somebody I know, 
5 Grayer and older than my grandfather. 
To give me the same treat he gave last week — 
Feeding me on his knee wdth fig-peckers, 
I^ampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling 
The while some folly about how well I fare, 
10 Let sit and eat my supper quietly: 

Since had he not himself been late this morning 
Detained at — never mind where, — had he not . . , 
**Eh, baggage, had I not!" — 

2nd Girl. How she can lie! 

3rd Girl. Look there — bv the nails! 



PIPPA PASSES 373 

2nd Girl. What makes your fingers red? 

3rd Girl. Dipping them into wine to write bad words 
with 
On the bright table: how he laughed! 

1^^ Girl. My turn. 

Spring 's come and summer 's coming. I would wear 
A long loose gown, down to the feet and hands, 
With plaits here, close about the throat, all day; 
And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed; 
And have new milk to drink, apples to eat, 
Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . . ah, I should 

say, 
This is away in the fields — miles! 

3rd Girl. Say at once 

You'd be at home: she'd always be at home! 
Now comes the story of the farm among 
The cherry orchards, and how xApril snowed 
White blossoms on h^r as she ran. Why, fool. 
They 've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were, 
Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage, 
Made a dung-hill of your garden! 

1st Girl. They destroy 

My garden since I left them ? well — perhaps 
I would have done so: so I hope they have! 
A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall; 
They called it mine, I have forgotten why. 
It must have been there long ere I was born: 
Cric — eric — I think I hear the wasps o'erhead 
Pricking the papers strung to flutter there 
And keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse long papers. 
And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through. 



374 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

3rd Girl. How her mouth twitches ! Where was I ? — 
40 before 

She broke in with her wishes and long gowns 

And wasps — would I be such a fool! — Oh, here! 

This is my way: I answer every one 

Who asks me why I made so much of him — 
45 (If you say, "you love him" — straight ''he'll not be 
gulled!") 

"He that seduced me when I was a girl 

Thus high — had eyes like yours, or hair like yours 

Brown, red, white," — as the case may be : that pleases I 

See how that beetle burnishes in the path! 
50 There sparkles he along the dust: and, there — 

Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled at least! 

1st Girl. W^hen I was young, they said if you killed one 

Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend 

Up there, would shine no more that day nor next. 
55 2nd Girl. When you were young ? Nor are you young 
that 's true. 

How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away ! 

Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still ? 

No matter, so you keep your curious hair. 

I wish they 'd find a way to dye our hair 
60 Your colour — any lighter tint, indeed. 

Than black: the men say they are sick of black, 

Black eyes, black hair! 

^th Girl. Sick of yours, like enough. 

Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreys 

And ortolans? Giovita, of the palace, 
g^ Engaged (but there 's no trusting him) to slice me 

Polenta with a knife that had cut up 



PIPPA PASSES 375 

An ortolan. 

2nd Girl. Why, there! Is not that Pippa 
We are to talk to, under the window, — quick! — 
Where the lights are? 

1^/ Girl. That she ? No, or she would sing, 

For the Intendant said . . . 

Zrd Girl. Oh, you sing first! 70 

Then, if she listens and comes close . . . I'll tell you, — 
Sing that song the young English noble made. 
Who took you for the purest of the pure, 
And meant to leave the world for you — what fun! 

2nd Girl [sings]. 

You 'II love me yet! — and I can tarry 75 

Your love's protracted growing: 
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry y 

From seeds of April's sowing. 

I plant a heart ful now: some seed 

At least is sure to strike. so 

And yield — tvhat you II not pluck indeed, 

Not love, but, may be, like. 

You 'II look at least on love's remains, 

A grave's one violet: 
Your lookf — that pays a thousand pains. ss 

What 's death? You 'II love me yet! 

3rd Girl [to Pippa tvho approaches]. Oh, you may 
come closer — we shall not eat you! Why, you seem the 
very person that the great rich handsome Englishman has 
fallen so violently in love with. I'll tell you all about it. »• 




376 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

IV. — NIGHT 



ScENCE. — Inside the Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, 
dismissing his Attendants. J 

Monsignor. Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chiefly 
desire Ufe now, that I may recompense every one of you. 

. Most I know something of already. What, a repast pre- 
pared? Benedicto benedicatur . . . ugh, ugh! Where 

6 was I ? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is 
mild, very unUke winter-weather: but I am a SiciHan, you 
know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 
't was full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross 
in procession the great square on Assumption Day, you 

10 might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, 
each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a 
gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [To the In- 
tendant.] Not you, Ugo! [The others leave the apart- 
ment.] I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo. 

15 Intendant. Uguccio — 

Monsignor. . . . 'guccio Stefani, man! of iVscoli, 
Fermo and Fossombruno; — what I do need instructing 
about, are these accounts of your administration of my 
poor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through a 

20 third part of your accounts: take some of these dainties 
before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to that 
degree ? For me, a crust and water suffice. 

Intendant. Do you choose this especial night to ques- 
tion me ? 

25 Monsignor. This night, Ugo. You have managed 
my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother: 



PIPPA PASSES 377 

fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the 
Third of December, I find him . . . 

Intendant. If you have so intimate an acquaintance 
with your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning 3( 
so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back. 
Monsignor. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but disap- 
pointments here below! I remark a considerable pay- 
ment made to yourself on this Third of December. Talk 
of disappointments! There was a young fellow here, 35 
Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, that 
the Church might be a gainer by us both: he was going 
on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me 
some marvellous change that has happened in his notions 
of Art. Here 's his letter, "He never had a clearly con- 40 
ceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since his hand 
could manage a chisel, he has practiced expressing other 
men's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attained 
to, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious hand 
will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will repro- is 
duce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel 
one appear never so palpably to his spirit. There is but 
one method of escape: confiding the virgin type to as 
chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and 
paint, not carve, its characteristics," — strike out, I dare 50 
say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo? 
Intendant. Is Correggio a painter? 
Monsignor. Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, whv 
foolish? He may — probably will — fail egregiously; but 
if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some 55 
such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who have 
V'onceived and perfected an Ideal through some other 



378 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

channel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conven- 
tional roads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo ? If you 
60 have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo ! 

Intendant. Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of 
yours. First, you select the group of which I formed one, 
— next you thin it gradually, — always retaining me with 
your smile, — and so do you proceed till you have fairly got 
65 me alone with you between four stone walls. And now 
then? Let this farce, this chatter, end now; what is it 
you want with me? 
Monsigno)'. Ugo ! 

Intendant. From the instant you arrived, I felt your 

70 smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other 

article in those papers — why your brother should have 

given me this villa, that podere, — and your nod at the end 

meant, — what ? 

Monsignor. Possibly that I wished for no loud talk 
■35 here. If once you set me coughing, Ugo ! — 

Intendant. I have your brother's hand and seal to all 
I possess: now ask me what for! what service I did him — 
ask me! 

Monsignor. I would better not: I should rip up old 

80 disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the 

way, Maffeo of Forli (which, I forgot to observe, is your 

true name), was the interdict ever taken off you, for robbing 

that church at Cesena ? 

Intendant. No, nor needs be : for when I murdered your 
85 brother's friend, Pasquale, for him ... 

Monsignor. Ah, he employed you in that business, 
did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa 
and that podere, for fear the world should find out my rela- 



PIPPA PASSES 37y 

tions were of so indifferent a stamp ? Maffeo, my family 
is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have 90 
my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every 
wickedness under heaven: my own father . . . rest his 
soul! — I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may 
rest: my dear two dead brothers were, — what you know 
tolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivalled them 9? 
in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I came out 
from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. 
My glory springs from another source; or if from this, by 
contrast only, — for I, the bishop, am the brother of your 
employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of their wrong, 100 
however; so far as my brother's ill-gotten treasure reverts 
to me, I can stop the consequences of his crime: and not 
one soldo shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet 
men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit 
murders w^ith; what opportunities the virtuous forego, 105 
the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself apart 
from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, 
my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw, — am I therefore 
to let you, the offscouring of the earth, seduce the poor and 
ignorant by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to 110 
think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and ex- 
clusively associated with it ? Must I let villas and 'poderi go 
to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means 
of them other murderers and thieves ? No — if my cough 
would but allow me to speak! 115 

Intendant. What am I to expect? You are going to 
punish me ? 

Monsignor. Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot 
afford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of 



380 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

120 jsln to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in. 
How should I dare to say . . . 

Intendant. "Forgive us our trespasses"? 
Monsignor. My friend, it is because I avow myself a 
very worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of 

125 conduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, 
as it were, a-pardoning ? — I ? — who have no symptom of 
reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest 
efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less keep 
others out. No: I do trespass, but will not double that 

130 by allowing you to trespass. 

Intendant. And suppose the villas are not your brother's 
to give, nor yours to take ? Oh, you are hasty enough just 
now! 

Monsignor. 1, 2 — No. 3! — ay, can you read the sub- 

135 stance of a letter, No. 3, I have received from Rome ? It 
is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion 
I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who 
would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in 
infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late 

140 younger brother — that the Pontiff enjoins on me not 
merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, 
but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritage 
for the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, 
whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now gnaw- 

145 ing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your 
papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my 
people from the next room to dispose of yourself. But 
I want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my 
voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story? The 

150 heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's ruffianly 



PIPPA PASSES 381 

instrument, and their complot's effect, and the hfe of fear 
and bribes and ominous smiHng silence ? Did you throttle 
or stab my brother's infant ? Come now ! 

Infendant. So old a story, and tell it no better ? When 
did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? 155 
Either the child smiles in his face; or, most likely, he is 
not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so 
thoroughly: the child is always ready to produce — as you 
say — howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever. 

Monsignor. Liar ! lea 

Intendant. Strike me ? Ah, so might a father chastise ! 
I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows 
await me to-morrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo of 
Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I pay 
his annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If les 
I remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop — you ! 

Monsignor. I see through the trick, caitiff! I would 
you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however — 
seven times sifted. 

Intendant. And how my absurd riches encumbered no 
me ! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. 
Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die ! 

Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like your brother 
I frightened to death : let us understand one another. Sir, 
I will make away with her for you — the girl — here close 175 
at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not 
speak — know nothing of her nor of me! I see her every 
day — saw her this morning: of course there is to be no 
killing; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three 
years, and I can entice her thitiier — have indeed begun iso 
operations already. There 's a certain lusty blue-eyed 



382 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

florid-complexioned English knave, I and the PoHce em- 
ploy occasionally. You assent, I perceive — no, that 's not 
it — assent I do not say — but you will let me convert my 

185 present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time 
to cross the Alps? 'T is but a little blackeyed pretty 
singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her 
out of harm's way up to this present; for I always intended 
to make your life a plague to you with her. 'T is as well 

190 settled once and for ever. Some women I have procured 
will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for 
somebody; and once Pippa entangled! — you conceive? 
Through her singing ? Is it a bargain ? 

[From without is Jieard the voice of Pippa, singing. 

Overhead the tree-tops meet, 
195 Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; 

There was naught above me, naught below, 
My childhood had not learned to know: 
For, what are the voices of birds 
— Ay, and of beasts, — but ivords, our words, 
2W) Only so much more stveetf 

The knowledge of that loith my life begun. 
But I had so near made out the sun. 
And counted your stars, the seven and one, 
Like the fingers of my hand: 
205 ^(^y, I could all but understand 

Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; 
And just when out of her soft fifty changes 
No unfamiliar face might overlook me — 

Suddenly God took me. 

[Pippa passes 



PIPPA PASSES 383 

Monsignor [springing vp]. My people — one and all — 21c 
all — within there! Gag this villain — tie him hand and 
foot! He dares ... I know not half he dares — but 
remove him — quick! Miserere mei, Domine! Quick, 
I say! 

Scene. — Pippa's chamber again. She enters it. 

The bee with his comb, 

The mouse at her dray, 

The grub in his tomb, 

While winter away; 

But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray, s 

How fare they? 

Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my Zanze! 

''Feast upon lampreys, quaff Breganze" — 

The summer of life so easy to spend, 

And care for to-morrow so soon put away! 10 

But winter hastens at summer's end, 

And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray, 

How fare they? 

No bidding me then to . . . what did Zanze say? 

"Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes 15 

More like" . . . (what said she?) — ''and less like 

canoes!" 
How pert that girl was! — would I be those pert 
Impudent staring women! It had done me, 
However, surely no such mighty hurt 

To learn his name who passed that jest upon me: 20 

No foreigner, that I can recollect, 
Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect 



384 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and thick rings 

Of raw-silk-coloured hair, at all events. 
25 Well, if old Luca keep his good intents, 

We shall do better, see Avhat next year brings. 

I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear 

More destitue than you perhaps next year! 

Bluph . . . something! I had caught the uncouth name 
30 But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter 

Above us — bound to spoil such idle chatter 

As ours: it were indeed a serious matter 

If silly talk like ours should put to shame 

The pious man, the man devoid of blame, 
35 The ... ah but — ah but, all the same. 

No mere mortal has a right 

To carry that exalted air; 

Best people are not angels qxiite: 

While — not the worst of people's doings scare 
40 The devil; so there 's that proud look to spare 
Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for 

I have just been the holy Monsignor: 

And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother. 

And you too, Luigi! — how that Luigi started 
45 Out of the turret — doubtlessly departed 

On some good errand or another, 

For he passed just now in a traveller's trim. 

And the sullen company that prowled 

About his path, I noticed, scowled 
50 As if they had lost a prey in him. 

And I was Jules the sculptor's bride, 

And I was Ottima beside, 

And now what am I? — tired of fooling. 



PIPPA PASSES 385 

Day for folly, night for schooling! 

New Year's day is over and spent, ss 

111 or well, I must be content. 

Even my lily 's asleep, I vow: 
Wake up — here 's a friend I've plucked you! 
Call this flower a heart's-ease now! 

Something rare, let me instruct you, co 

Is this, wdth petals triply swollen, 
Three times spotted, thrice the pollen; 
While the leaves and parts that witness 
Old proportions and their fitness. 

Here remain unchanged, unmoved now; « 

Call this pampered thing improved now! 
Suppose there 's a king of the flowers 
And a girl-show held in his bowers — 
"Look ye, buds, this growth of ours," 

Says he, "Zanze from the Brenta to 

I have made her gorge polenta 
Till both cheeks are near as bouncing 
As her . . . name there 's no pronouncing! 
See this heightened color too, 

For she swilled Breganze wine ?§ 

Till her nose turned deep carmine; 
'T was but w^hite when wild she grew. 
And only by this Zanze's eyes 
Of which we could not change the size. 

The magnitude of all achieved •* 

Otherwise, may be perceived." 

Oh Avhat a drear dark close to my poor day! 
How could that red sun drop in that black cloud? 



386 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Ah Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, 
S5 Dispensed with, never more to be allowed! 

Day's turn is over, now arrives the night's. 

Oh lark, be day's apostle 

To mavis, merle and throstle, 

Bid them their betters jostle 
jo From day and its delights! 

But at night, brother owlet, over the woods, 

Toll the world to thy chantry; 

Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods 

Full complines with gallantry: 
\i5 Then, owls and bats. 

Cowls and twats. 

Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, 

Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! 

[After she has begun to undress herself. 

Now, one thing I should like to really know: 
100 How near I ever might approach all these 

I only fancied being, this long day: 

— Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, so 

As to . . . in some way . . . move them — if you 
please. 

Do good or evil to them some slight way. 
105 For instance, if I wind 

Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind 

[Sitting on the bedside. 

And border Ottima's cloak's hem. 

Ah me, and my important part with them. 

This morning's hymn half promised when I rose! 
110 True in some sense or other, I suppose. 

[.4^ she lies down. 



PIPPA PASSES 387 

God bless me! I can pray no more to-night. 

No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right. 
All service ranks the same with God — 
With God, whose puppets, best and worst, 
Are we; there is no last nor first. "s 

[She sleeps. 



NOTES 

SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 

The poem Paracelsus is divided into Ave parts, eacli of which describes 
an important period in the experience of Paracelsus, the celebrated Ger- 
man-Swiss physician, alchemist, and philosopher of the sixteenth century. 
Book I. tells of the eagerness and pride with which he set out in his youth 
to compass all knowledge; he believed himself commissioned of God 
to learn Truth and to give it to mankind. Books II. and III. show him 
followed and idolized by multitudes to whom he imparts the fragments 
of knowledge he has gained. But though these fragments seem to his 
disciples the sum and substance of wisdom, his own mind is preoccupied 
with a desolating certainty that he has hardly touched on the outer con- 
fines of truth. In Book IV., after experiencing the ingratitude of his 
fickle adherents, he is represented as abjuring the dreams of his youth. 
At this point comes the first of the three songs given in the text. He 
builds an imaginary altar on which he offers up the aspirations, the hopes, 
the plans, with which he had begun his career. 

SoxG I 

1-3. Cassia is an unidentified fragrant plant; the wood of the sandal 
tree is also fragrant; labdanum, or ladanum, is a resinous gum of dark color 
and pungent odor, exuding from various species of the cist us, a plant found 
around the Mediterranean; aloe-balls are made from a bitter resinous 
juice extracted from the leaves of aloe-plants; nard is an ointment made 
from an aromatic plant and used in the East Indies. These substances 
have ong been traditionally associated in literature. In Psalms 45:8 we 
read; "All thy garments smell of myrrh, and aloes, and cassia, out of the 
Ivory palaces, whereby they have made thee glad." Milton in Paradise 
Lost, 5:293, speaks of "flowering odours, cassia, nard, and balms." 

4. Such balsam. The meaning of 11. 4-8 is obscure. "Sea-side moun- 
tain pedestals" are presumably cliffs. In the tops of the trees on these 
cliffs the wind, weary of its rough work on the ocean, has gently dropped 
the fragrant things it has swept up from the island. 

9-16. In this stanza the faint sweetness from the spices used in em- 
balming, and the perfume etill clinging to the tapestry in an ancient royal 

333 



390 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

room carry suggestions of vanished power and beauty that add an appro- 
priate pathos to tlie richly piled altar on which Paracelsus is to offer up 
the "lovely fancies" of his youth. "Shredded" Is a transferred epithet, 
referring really to "arras," but transferred to the perfume of the arras. 

SoNO 11. (Book IV) 

When Paracelsus confesses the failure of his pursuit of absolute knowl- 
edge, his friend Festus urges him to redeem the past by making new use 
of what he has gained; but Paracelsus has no courage to attempt a re- 
organization of his life in accordance >vith a new ideal. His answer to 
Festus is the second of the three songs. He afterwards calls it, 

"The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung 
To their first fault and withered in their pride." 

The song is a beautiful and clear allegory, vivid In Its pictures, rapid and 
musical. 



SoNO III. (Book V) 

In Book V. Paracelsus is described as lying ill in the Hospital of St. 
Sebastian. Festus is endeavoring to divert the current of his dying friend's 
fierce, delirious thoughts into a gentler channel. He brings up one picture 
after another of the early happy life of Paracelsus, and dwells on the 
grandeur of his mind and achievements, and on the fame that shall be 
his. But the desired peace comes only when Festus sings the song of 
the river Mayne beside which their youth had been spent. At the end 
of the song Paracelsus exclaims, 

"My heartl they loose my heart, those simple words: 
Its darkness passes which naught else could touch." 

The Mayne, or Main, is the most important of the right-hand tributaries of 
of the Rhine. Wtirzburg, where Festus and Paracelsus had been as 
students, is on its banks. Its University was especially noted for its 
medical department. Mr. Stopford Brooke (The Poetry of Robert Brown- 
ing, p. 99) says of this lovely lyric: "I have driven through that gracious 
country of low hill and dale and wide water-meadows, where under 
flowered banks only a foot high the slow river winds in gentleness: and 
this poem is steeped in the sentiment of the scenery. But, as before. 
Browning quickly slides away from the beauty of inanimate nature into 
a record of the animals that haunt the streams. He could not get on 
long with mountains and rivers alone. He must people them with breath- 
ing, feeling things; anything for life!" 



JNOTES 391 

CAVALIER TUNES 

Tliese three stirring songs represent the gay. reckless loyalty of the 
Cavaliers to the cause of King Charles I. and tlieir contempt for his Puritan 
opposers. The Puritans wore closely cropped hair; hence the Parliament 
which came together in 1640 and was controlled by the opponents of th* 
king, is dubbed "crop-headed." John Pym and John Hampden were 
leaders in the struggle against the tyranny of the king. Hazelrig. Fiennes, 
and young Sir Henry Vane were also adherents of Oliver Cromwell. 
Rupert, Prince of the Palatinate, was a nephew of Charles I. and was a 
noted cavalry leader on the royal side diiring the Civil War. The 
followers of the king unfurled the royal standard at Nottingham in 
August, 1642; Kentish Sir Byng raised a troop and hurried on to join 
the main royal army. In September occurred the battle of Edgehill. 
The "Noll" (1. 16 of Give a Rouse) is Oliver Cromwell. The third song was 
entitled originally My Wife Gertrude. It was she who held the castle of 
Brancepeth against the Koundiieads. 

THE LOST LEADER 

This poem Indignantly records a poet's defection from the cause of 
progress and liberty. Who this poet might be was for some time a matter 
of conjecture. Wordsworth, Southey, and Charles Kingsley, all of whom 
had gone from radicalism in their youth to conservatism in their old age, 
were severally proposed as the original of Browning's portrait. The poem 
was published in 1845, two years after Wordsworth was made poet laureate. 
Early in 1845 Wordsworth was presented at court, a proceeding which 
aroused comment — sometimes amused, sometimes indignant — from those 
who recalled the poet's early scorn of rank and titles. Browning and Miss 
Barrett exchanged several gay letters on this subject in May, 1845. In 
commenting on a letter from Miss Martineau describing Wordsworth In 
his home In 1846, Browning wrote, "Did not Shelley say long ago, 'He had 
no more imagination than a pint-pot' — though in those days he used to 
walk about France and Flanders like a man. Now, he is 'most comfort- 
able in his worldly affairs' and just this comes of it! He lives the best 
twenty years of his life after the way of his own heart — and when one 
presses in to see the result of his rare experiment — what the one alchemist 
whom fortune has allowed to get all his coveted materials and set to work 
at last with fire and melting pot — what he produces after all the talk of 
him and the like of him; why, you get pulvis et cinis — a man at the mercy 
of the tongs and shovel." In later life, however. Browning spoke of Words- 
worth in a different tone. In a letter to Mr. Grosart, written Feb. 24, 
1875, he said, "I have been asked the question you now address me with, 
and as duly answered, I can't remember how many times. There is no 
sort of objection to one more assurance, or rather confession, on my part, 
that I did in my hasty youth presume to use the great and, venerated 



392 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

personality of Wordsworth as a sort of painter's model; one from which 
this or the other particular feature may be selected and turned to account. 
Had I intended more— above all such a boldness as portraying the entire 
man— I should not have talked about 'handfuls of silver and bits of ribbon.' 
These never influenced the change of politics in the great poet — whose 
defection, nevertheless, accompanied as it was by a regular face-about of 
his special party, was, to my private apprehension, and even mature con- 
sideration, an event to deplore. But, just as in the tapestry on mj' wall 
I can recognize figures which have struck out a fancy, on occasion, that 
though truly enough thus derived, yet would be preposterous as a copy, 
so, though I dare not deny the original of my little poem, I altogether 
refuse to have it considered as the 'very effigies' of such a moral and 
intellectual superiority." For an interesting parallelism in theme, see 
Whittier's Ichabod. 

20. Whom. The reference is to the lower classes, whom the Liberals 
were endeavoring to rouse to aspiration and action. The Conservatives 
opposed such beginnings of independence. 

29. Best fight on well. It is the deserting leader who is exhorted to 
fight well. Though it is pain to have him desert their party, they have 
gloried in his power and it would be an even greater pain to see him weak. 
They wish him to flght well even though their cause is thereby menaced. 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX 

This poem was written during Mr. Browning's first journey to Italy, 
in 1838. He sailed from London in a merchant vessel bound for Trieste, 
on which he found himself the only passenger. The weather was stormy 
and for the first fortnight Browning was extremely ill. As they passed 
through the Straits of Gibraltar the captain supported him upon deck 
that he might not lose the sight. Of the composition of the poem he says, 
"I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I 
had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on 
the back of a certain good horse 'York' there in my stable at home." 
The poem was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of Bartoli's Simboli, a 
favorite book of his. Browning says that there was no sort of historical 
foundation for the story, but the Pacification of Ghent in 1576 has been 
suggested as an appropriate background. The incident narrated could 
naturally belong to the efforts of the united cities of Holland, Zealand, 
and the Southern Netherlands to combat the tyranny of Philip II. 

6. Of this line Miss Barrett wrote, "It drew us out into the night as 
witnesses." 

13. 'Twos moonset. The distance from Ghent to Aix is something over 
a hundred miles. The first horse gave out at Hasselt, about eighty miles 
from Ghent; the second horse failed at Dalhem in sight of Aix. Roland 



NOTES 393 

made the whole distance between midnight of one day and sunset of th« 
next. The minute notes of time are for dramatic and picturesque effec 
rather tlian as exact indications of progress. Even the towns are no; 
used with the exactness of a guide-boolc, for Looz and Tongres are off 
the direct route. 

17. Mecheln. Flemish for Mechhn. The chimes they heard were 
probably from the cathedral tower. 

41. Dome-spire. Over the polygonal monument founded by Charle- 
magne in Aix-la-Chapelle is a dome 104 feet high and 48 feet in diameter; 
The reference is probably to this dome. 

THE FLOWER'S NAME 

This poem and Sihrandut Schafnaburgensis, a companion poem, ap- 
peared in Hood's Magazine, July, 1844, under the title Garden Fancies. 
The Flower's Name is a description of a garden by a lover whose concep- 
tion of its beauty is heightened and made vital by the memories it en- 
shrines. Of this poem Miss Barrett wrote to Browning, "Then the 'Garden 
Fancies' — some of the stanzas about the name of the flower, with such 
exquisite music in them, and grace of every kind — and with that beautiful 
and musical use of the word 'meandering,' which I never remember having 
seen used in relation to sound before. It does to mate with your 'simmer- 
ing quiet' in Sordello, which brings the summer air into the room as sure 
as you read it." {Letters of R. B. and E. B. B. 1: 134.) 

10. Box. An evergreen shrub, dwarf varieties of which are used for 
low hedges or the borders of flower-beds. 

MEETING AT NIGHT AND PARTING AT MORNING 

These poems were published originally simply as Night and Morning. 
The second of these love lyrics is somewhat difficult to interpret. If the 
man is speaking, the "him" in 1. 3 must refer to the sun. In any case, 
after the isolation with the woman he loved as described in the first poem, 
there comes witli the morning a sense of the world of action to which the 
man must return. The two poems are fully discussed in Poet-Lore, Vol. 
VII., April, May, June-July. The poems are noteworthy for the fusion 
of human emotion and natural scenery and for the startlingly specific 
phrasing of the first quatrain. 

EVELYN HOPE 

In this lyric are embodied Browning's faith in personal immortality, 
his belief in the permanence of true love and in the value of love though 
unrequited in this world. 

34. What meant. From this point on through line 52 the lover repeats 
what he shall say to Evelyn Hope when in the life to come he claims her. 



394 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS 

A man is on his way across the fields to a turret where lie is to meet the 
girl he loves. As he walks through the solitary pastures he mentally 
recreates the powerful life and varied interests of the city which, tradition 
has it, once occupied this site, and he seems to be absorbed in a melancholy 
recognition of the evanescence of human glory. The girl is not mentioned 
till stanza 5. Does the emphasis on the scenery and its historic associa- 
tions unduly minimize the love element of the poem? Or is the whole 
picture of vanished joy and woe, pride and defeat, but a background 
against which stands out more clearly the rapture of the meeting in the 
ruined turret? 

80. Earth's returns. This phrase refers to the ruins which are all that 
now remains of the centuries of folly, noise, and sin. "Them" in 1. 81 
refers apparently to the "fighters" and the others of the first part of 
the stanza. 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY 

"It is an admirable piece of work crowded with keen descriptions of 
Nature in the Casentino. and of life in the streets of Florence. And every 
piece of description is so filled with the cliaracter of tlie 'Italian person 
of quality' wlio describes them — a petulant, humorous, easily angered, 
happy, observant, ignorant, poor gentleman — that Browning entirely 
disappears. The poem retains for us in its verse, and indeed in its light 
rhythm, tlie childlikeness, the naivete, the simple pleasures, the ignorance, 
and tlie honest boredom with the solitudes of Nature — of a whole class of 
Italians, not only of the time when it was written, but of the present day. 
It is a delightful, inventive piece of gay and pictorial humour." (Stopford 
Brooke: The Poetry of Broioning, p. 322.) 

33. Corn. In Great Britain the word is generally applied to wheat, 
fye, oats, and barley, not to maize as in America. 

34. Stinking honp. In Chapter I. of James Lane Allen's The Reign of 
haxo is tlie following passage on the odor of the hemp-field: "And now 
borne far through the steaming air floats an odor, balsamic, startling: 
the odor of those plumes and stalks and blossoms from which is exuding 
freely the narcotic resin of the great nettle." When the long swaths of 
cut hemp lie across the field, the smell is represented as strongest, "im- 
pregnating the clothing of the men, spreading far throughout the air." 
To many this odor is essentially unpleasant. 

42. Pulcinello-trumpet. Pulciiiello was originally the clown in the 
Neapolitan comedy. Later he became the Punch in Punch and Judy 
shows. The trumpet announces that one of these puppet plays is to be 
given in the public square. 

43. Scene- picture. A picture advertising the new play. 



I 



NOTES 395 

44. Liberal thieves. Members of the liberal party, the party striving 
for Italian independenceT The Person of Quality is. of course, of the 
aristocratic party. 

47. A sonnet. Laudatory poetical tributes with ornamental borders 
were posted in public places as a method of doing honiase. In tliis Case 
the \mknown "Reverend Don So-and-So" is ranked by his admirer with 
Dante, Boccaccio, and Petrarch, the greatest Italian poets with St. 
Jerome, one of the most celebrated Fathers of the Latin Cuur-h. with 
Cicero, one of tlie greatest of Roman orators; and witli St. Paul, tiie 
greatest of Christian preachers. 

51. Our Lady. The seven swords represent symbolically the seven 
sorrows of the Virgin Mary, but this Person of Quality regards the gilt 
swords and the smart pink gown merely as gay decorations. Religious 
I)rocessions of the sort described here and in lines 60-64 are frejueat in 
European countries. 

55. It's dear. According to the system of taxation in Italy, town 
dues must be paid on all provisions brought into the city. 

60. Yellow candles. Used at funerals and in penitential processions 
in the Roman Church. 



A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S 

Mrs. Ireland says of this poem: "The Toccata as a form of composition 
is not the measured, deliberate working-out of some central musical tiieais 
as is the Sonata or sound-piece — The Toccata, in its early and pure form, 
possessed no decided subject, made such by repetition, but bore rather the 
form of a capricious Improvisation, or 'Impromptu.' " (A Toccata of Ga- 
luppi'shy Mrs. Alexander Ireland, published in London Browning Society 
Papers.) 

■ 1. Galuppi. Baldasarre Galuppi (170G-1784) was an Italian com- 
poser born near Venice. He spent manj 5^ears in England and Russia. 
In 1708 he became organist at St. Mark's, Venice. 

4. Your old music. At the sound of the music Browning Imaginatively 
re-creates the Venetian social life of the eighteenth century. 

6. St. Mark's. The great cathedral. The Doge of Venice used to 
throw a ring into the sea from the ship Bucentaur to "denote that the 
Adriatic was subject to the republic of Venice as a wife is sul^ject to her 
husband." 

8. Shylock's bridge. The Rialto, a bridge over the Grand Canal. 
It has two rows of shops under arcades. 

18. Clavichord. An instrument with keys and strings, something 
like a piano. 

19-30. The musical terms in these lines show Browning's knowledge 
of the technicalities of the art. To one without such expert knowledge 
the exact musical connotation is doubtless obscure. But the epithets 
and phrases are in themselves sufficient to suggest the varying moods of 



396 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

the Venetian merry-makers. The plaintiveness, the sighs, the sense ot 
death, the trembUng hope that life may last, the renewed love-making, 
the new round of futile pleasures or evil deeds, the end of it all in the 
grave, are clearly brought forth. An elaborate explanation of the musical 
terms is given in the notes to the Camberwell edition of Browning's poems. 
31. But when I sit down to reason. The first thirty lines of tlie poem 
have recorded the effect of the music in recreating in the poet's imagina- 
tion the gay, careless life of eigliteenth century Venice, and its close in 
death. Now when the poet endeavors to turn from that picture of death 
lurking under smiles, he finds that the cold music has filled his mind with 
an inescapable sense of the futility of life, and even his own chosen mental 
activities seem to him, along with the rest, hardly more than dust and 
ashes. Ambition and enthusiasm fade before the spell of the music 

OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 

3. Aloed arch. The genus aloe includes trees, shrubs, and herbs. 
The American variety is the century-plant. Browning's hill-side villa 
e^ idently had aloes trained to grow in an arch. 

15. The startling bell-tower Giotto raised. Giotto began the Campanile 
in 1334, and after his death in 1337 tlie work was continued by Andrea 
Pisano. Its striking beauty impresses- the poet as he looks out over the 
city. But it does more than that, for it rouses in him reflections on the 
progress and meaning of art. 

17-24. The address to Giotto, thrown in here as it is with conversational 
freedom, is partially explained in lines 184-248. See note on 1. 236. 

30. By a gift God grants ms. The power to recreate vividly and 
minutely the past. The artists of bygone centuries are called back by 
his imagination to their old haunts in Florence. 

44. Stands One. The "one" (1. 44), "a hon" (1. 47), "the wronged 
great soul" (1. 48), and "the wronged great souls" (1. 58), all refer to the 
unappreciated early artists. 

50. They. That is. the famous great artists such as Michael Angelo 
and Raphael. Critics"hum and buzz" around them with praise to which 
thej^ are indifferent. 

59. Where their work is all to do. Their place in the development of 
art is not yet understood. It must be made clear, Browning thinks, 
that painters like Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) come in natural succes- 
sion from earlier obscure artists like Dello, that art is a real and continuous 
record of the human mind and heart. 

67. The mastiff girns. When some influential critic snarls, all the 
imitative inferior critics take the same tone. Cf . Shelley's Adonais, stanzas 
28, 37, 38. 

69. Stefano. A pupil of Giotto and called "Nature's ape" because of 
his accurate representations of the human body. 

72. Vasari. Author of Lives of the Most Eminent Painters and 



NOTES 397 

Sculptors. (Published 1550. Translated by Mrs. Foster in Bohn's 
Library.) In his studies of art Browning made constant use of this book. 

76. Sic transit. Sic transit gloria mundi. "So passes away tlie glory 
of the world." 

84. In fructu. "As fruit." The fruit of Greek art at its best was that 
it presented in marble ideally perfect human bodies. 

98. Theseus. The kingly statue of the reclining Theseus in the frieze 
of the Parthenon. 

99. Son of Priam. In the sculptures of Aegina, Paris, the son of 
Priam, kneeling and drawing his bow, has a grace beyond that of any man 
who might think to pose as a model. 

101. Apollo. At Delphi Apollo slew an enormous python. 

102. Niobe. Through the vengeance of Apollo and Diana, Niobe's 
seven sons and seven daughters were all slain. In the Imperial Gallery 
of Florence there is a statue of Niobe clasping her last child. 

103. The Racer's frieze. In the Parthenon. 

104. The dying Alexander. A piece of ancient Greek sculpture at 
Florence. 

108. To submit is a mortal's duty. The supreme beauty of the statues 
led men to content themselves with admiration and imitation. 

113. Growth came. New life came to art when men ceased to rest in 
the perfect achievement of the past, and found a new realm opened up 
to them in representing the subtler activities of the soul. Lines 145-152 
state the ideals that actuated the new art. The reference is to the 
religious art of the Italian Renaissance. 

115-144. These lines sum up the reasons for the importance of the 
art that strives "to bring the invisible full into play" (1. 150). It may 
be rough-hewn and faulty; but it is greater and grander than Greek art 
because of its greater range, variety, and complexity, and because it 
reaches beyond any possible present perfection into eternity. 

134. Thy one work . . . done at a stroke. Giotto when asked for a 
proof of his skill to send to the Pope, drew with one stroke of his brush 
a perfect circle, whence the proverb, "Rounder than the O of Giotto." 

156. Quiddit. Quibble. The humorous rhyme "did it — quiddit" is 
but one of the many whimsical rhyming effects in the poem. The use of 
a light, semi-jocose form to give the greater emphasis to serious subject- 
matter is characteristic of Browning. Lowell in A Fable for Critics em- 
ploys the same device. 

161-76, Not Browning's usual attitude. Even this poem is a deifica- 
tion of progress through effort, not through repose. 

178. Art's spring-birth. Nicolo the Pisan and Cimabue lived in the 
second half of the thirteenth century. From them to Ghiberti (1381- 
1455), who made the famous bronze doors of tlie Baptistry at Florence, 
and Ghirlandajo (1449-1494), a Florentine fresco painter, was a period 
in which Brownin? was especially interested. Mrs. Orr says that he owned 
pictures by all the artists meiitioned here. 



398 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

192. Italian quick-lime. Many of the fine old Italian fresco paintings 
have been white-washed over. 

198. Dree. The pictures "endure" the doom of captivity. But they 
might be ferreted out if the ghosts of the old painters would only indicate 
where the lost works are. 

201-224. He does not hope to get pictures of the famous Florentine 
painters, Bigordi (probably another name for Ghirlandajo), Sandro. 
Botticelli, Lippino (son of Fra Lippo Lippi), or Fra Angelico. But he 
might hope for better success in finding pieces by the obscure painters 
mentioned in lines 205-224. These painters are so described that we 
know concerning each one, some characteristic quality or work. 

206. Intonaco. The plaster that forms the ground for fresco work. 

214. Tempera. A pigment mixed with some vehicle soluble in water 
instead of with oil as in oil paintings. 

218. Barret. A kind of cap. 

230. Zeno. The founder of the sect of Stoics, and hence supposedly 
not stirred by "naked High Art." 

232. Some clay-cold vile Carlino. Commercial dealers in art are 
unmoved by true beauty, but they go into ecstasies over uninspired work 
hke that of Carlino. (Carlo Ddlci, 1616-1686.) 

236. A certain precious little tablet. Mr. Browning wrote to Professor 
Corson that this was a lost Last Supper praised by Vasari. The stanza in 
which this line occurs explains 11. 17-24. 

237. Buonarroti. Michael Angelo. 

241. San Spirito, etc. "Holy Spirit" and "All Saints," old churches 
in Florence 

244. Detur amanti. "Let it be given to the one who loves it." 

245. Koh-i-noor. A famous Indian diamond presented to Queen 
Victoria in 1850. 

246. Jewel of Giamschid. The splendid fabulous ruby of Sultan 
Giamschid, sometimes called "The Cup of the Sun" and "The Torch of 
Night." Byron (The Giaour) says that the dark eyes of Leila were 
"bright as the jewel of Giamschid." The carbuncle of Giamschid is one 
of the treasures sought'by the Caliph in Beckford's Caliph Vathek. 

246. The Persian Sofi. The Sufi or Sofi is a title or surname of the 
Shah of Persia. 

249. A certain dotard, etc. Radetsky (1766-1858) was in 1849-1857 
governor of the Austrian possessions in Upper Italy. "The worse side of 
the Mont St. Gothard" is the S\vi.ss side. "Morello" is a mountain near 
Florence. There had been freiueat insurrections against Austria but they 
had been fruitless. Browning prophesies the time when there shall be a 
great national council (a Witanagemot) by which, when Freedom has 
been restored to Florence, a new and vigorous Art shall be brought in. 
It will then be perceived that a monarchy nourishes the false and mon- 
strous in art, and that "Pure Art" must come from the people. 

258. The stone of Dante. The stons whera Daote used *o draw his 



NOTES 399 

chair out to sit. For this and other references in stanza XXXIV see 
Mrs. Browning's Casa Guidi Windows, Part I. In tliis poem she suggests 
"a parliament of the lovers of Italy." 

260. Quod videas ante — "Which you may have seen before." 
263. Hated house. The poet hates the rule of the House of Lorraine, 
and prefers the days of the painter Orgagna, in the fourteenth century, 
when Italy was free. 

273. Tuscan. The literary language of Italy and not given to super- 
latives such as are indicated by "issimo." 

275. Cambuscan: a reference to the Squire's Tale, left unfinished by 
Chaucer. 

276. Alt to altissimo. "High to highest." 

277. Beccaccia. A wood-cock. 

281. Shall I be alive. According to Giotto's plan the tower was to 
have had a spire fifty braccia or cubits (about 95 feet) high. This spire 
has never been built. 



"DE GUSTIBUS— " 

The whole phrase is De gustibus non dis putand um—" there is no disputing 
about tastes." Browning is writing to a friend who prefers an English 
landscape while the poet himself declares in favor of Italy. 

2. If our loves remain. If we have a life after death. 

4. A corn-field. The picture is of a field of wheat with red poppies 
scattered through the wheat. 

23. Cypress. It is interesting to note how many of the trees, shrubs, 
flowers, and fruits in Browning's poems are those of southern Europe. 
His poetry of nature is almost as distinctively Italian as Tennyson's is 
English. The Englishman in Italy is especially rich in vivid, pictures:iue 
details of southern scenes. 

36. Liver- wing. The right wing. The shot hit the Icing in the r ght 
arm. 

37. Bourbon. Mr. and Mrs. Browning were rejoicing at any indications 
that the people of Italy were awake to revolt against the Bourbons. 833 
Mrs. Browning's Casa Guidi Windows and First News from Villa Franca 
and Mr. Browning's The Italian in England. 

40. Queen Marys saying. For two hundred years Calais had been 
one of England's most important possessions. It was taken by the 
French in 1588, the last year of the reign of Queen Mary. What Queen 
Mary said of Calais, Browning says of Italy. 

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 

Compare the sentiment of this poem with that of "De Gustibus — " 
written ten years later. In Home Thoughts from Abroad we have one of 
Browning's rare uses of the scenery of his own country. 



400 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

14. That's the wise thrush. The power of these lines in presenting 
both the musical and the emotional quality of the bird's song is rivallefl 
only by "Wilson Flagg's The Bobolink (quoted in John Burroughs' Birds 
and Poets) and Wordsworth's To the Cuckoo. 

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 

This poem and the preceding one express two phases of the poet's love 
of country: his affection for the physical beauty of England, and his pride 
in her political freedom. In the first poem, he turns, in tho\ight, from the 
glowing color of Italy, to the more delicate loveliness of England in April; 
in the second poem, he longs to repay the service his country has 
rendered him in defeating foreign foes. 

Home-Thoughts from the Sea was written at the same time and under 
the same circumstances as How they brought the Good News from Ghent 
to Aix. The poet, aboard a vessel coasting along the shore of Africa, 
could see to the northwest the Portuguese Cape Vincent, near which, in 
1797, England won a naval victory over Spain; southeast of Cape Vincent, 
on the Spanish coast, Cadiz Bay, where, in 1796, England defeated the 
second Spanish armada; and southeast of Cadiz Bay, Cape Trafalgar, 
where, in 1805, Nelson won a famous victory over the allied fleets of France 
and Spain. To the northeast, the poet could see Gibraltar, the great 
fortress which England acquired from Spain by the Peace of Utrecht, 1713. 

SAUL 

1. Abner. The cousin of Saul and the commander of his army. /. 
Sam. 14:50. 

9. Saul and the Spirit. For the conflict between Saul and the evil 
spirit, and the refreshment that came to him when David played see /. 
Sam. 16:14-23. 

12. Gracious gold hair. For the personal appearance of David see /. 
Satn. 16:12, 18; 17:42. . 

12. Those lilies . . . blue. Mrs. Coleridge wrote to Mr. Kenyou to 
know whether Mr. Browning had any authority for "blue lilies." Mr. 
Browning answered, "Lilies are of all colors in Palestine — one sort is 
particularized as white with a dark blue spot and streak — the water lily, 
lotus, which I think I meant, is blue altogether." (Letters of R. B. 
and E. B. B. 1:523, 556.) 

' 31. The king-serpent. Probably the boa-constrictor. In poetry the 
characteristic most often attributed to a snake is malignancy. But in this 
picture of the serpe;it lying dormant and waiting for the sloughing of its 
old skin in the spring-time, when it will come forth with new beauty and 
power, the idea presented is that of tremendous force temporarily in abey- 
ance. 



NOTES *^^ 



42. Then the tune. The boy. alone in the field, tries all sorts of experi- 
ments in musical attraction on the animals about him. Professor Albert 
t cook suggests that Browning is here indebted to the Greek pastor a^ 
romance of Daphnis and Chloe. See Smith's translation ^ the Bohn 
edition The passages read in part as follows: "He ran through all 
variations of pastoral melody; he played the tune which the oxen obey, 
and which attracts the goats. -that in which the sheep delight- 

••He took his pipe from his scrip, and breathed mto it ^^ry ^e Mly^ The 
goats stood still merely lifting up their heads. Next he f ^/^^^f ^^^Z;^;; 
Lne. upon which they all put down their heads and began to graze^ 
Now he produced some notes soft and sweet in tone; at once his herd lay 
down After this he piped in a sharp key. and they ^---^.^^J^l'^^^^^ 
as if a wolf were in sight." These quotations serve at least to show 
how old is the fancy that animals are affected by music. 

To The service enjoined on the men orthe House of Levi is described 

'%'6 "" M:^;-!app^trL The male sapphire exhibits, through some 
peculiarff; Of Crystalline structure, a -r of bright rays. ^-«;^^-/-- 
as ••the star sapphire" and •'the asteriated sapphire. The ruby snows 

,aj 'what beasts may and what may not be eaten " ?«« ™rse 22 (or the 

-r-r\=.„^';2:rihr.,^rar 

"'lOS^'Hatrirn "e7c. The simile in lines 104-15 could have been 

ous country? character of the similitudes so 

124. /''^."'"/''^^'f'l ''u\ In his agonv he is like the king-serpent. 

msTa" is^iSXTanh'uake thaf mal tear open the rock but at the 

His ra.e is ^^^^^ "« i ^^^^ ^^^ ^^,^1 gp.rit is de- 

our impression of Saul's power and majesty. 

1^ S^nce my days, etc. Compare this passage with P^ppa Passe,. 
Prologue 104-13. .^ ^^^ direction of 

.:-,. =:£{:£^ Vn-r htriLrrre-'Ct 



402 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

memory of the sudden spiritual illumination that came to him in his 
interview with Saul. He had reached the summit of his endeavor (1. 191) 
and yet knew himself powerless to give the king new life. Then there 
flashed upon him the truth expressed in stanzas XVII-XIX. He breaks 
off in lines 192-205, going, in his strong feeling, ahead of his story and 
conunenting on what is described in stanza XIX. In stanza XV. he re- 
sumes his narrative. 

204. Hebron. David watches the slow coming of the dawn over th 
hill on which is situated the town of Hebron. 

206. Kidron. A brook near Jerusalem. It is fed by springs, and th» 
amount of water in it is sensibly decreased by the extreme heat of the day 

214. Ere error had bent. In /. Sam. Chapter 15 is an account of Saul'i 
disobedience and punishment. The choosing of Saul to be king is de 
scribed in /. Sam. Chapters 9 and 10. 

292. Sabaoth. The word means "hosts" and is ordinarily used in the 
phrase "The Lord of hosts." It represents the omnipotence of God. 

303. Nor leave up nor down, etc. At the end of stanza XV., the though 
that had come to David was that God had proved supreme in all the ways 
in which a human being could test knowledge and power, but that in the 
one way of love the creature might surpass the Creator. At line 302 he 
has come to believe in the infinitude of God's love as well as in the infini- 
tude of his power. It is interesting to note that George Eliot in Silas 
Afcrner gives to ignorant Dolly Winthrop an experience and a philosophy 
of life almost identical with those of Browning's David. 

307-312. A prophecy of the revelation of the divine in the human, 
the coming of God in the person of Christ. It is the human in the divine 
that men seek and love. In the Old Testament days such an idea, though 
foretold and longed for, could be but vaguely conceived except in moments 
of especial insight in the minds of poet-prophets like David. Mr. Herford 
(Robert Browning, p. 120) says of this passage: 

"David is occupied with no speculative question, but with the practical 
problem of saving a ruined soul; and neither logical ingenuity nor divine 
suggestion, but the inherent spiritual significance of the situation, urges 
his thought along the lonely path of prophecy. The love for the old king, 
which prompted him to try all the hidden paths of his soul in quest of 
healing, becomes a lighted torch by which he tracks out the meaning of the 
world and the still unrevealed purposes of God ; until the energy of thought 
culminates in vision and the Christ stands full before his eyes." 

313-35. In this stanza David represents all existences, good and evil 
.spirits, all animals, all forms of nature, as stirred by the great news of the 
future manifestation of the love of God as shown in Christ. 

MY STAR 

A love lyric generally supposed to refer to Mrs. Browning. 

4. The angled spar. A prism. In looking at a prism the colors one 
sees are determined by the point of view. The idea of the poem is am- 
plified in One Word More, stanzas XVI-XVIII. 



. NOTES 403 

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 

The Campagna, a plain around the city of Rome, was in ancient times 
the seat of many cities ; it is now dotted with ruins. "There is a solemnity 
and beauty about the Campagna entirely its own. To the reflective mind, 
this ghost of old Rome is full of suggestion; its vast, almost limitless extent 
as it seems to the traveller; its abundant herbage and floral wealth in early 
spring; Its desolation, its crumbling monmnents, and its evidences of a 
vanished civilization, fill the mind with a sweet sadness, which readily 
awakens the longing for the infinite spoken of in the poem." (Berdoe: 
Browning Cyclopaedia, p. 553.) 

6. / touched a thought. The elusive thought which he fancifully pursues 
from point to point in the surrounding landscape finds statement in lines 
34-60. Of these lines Sharp {Life of Browning, p. 159) says, "There is a 
gulf which not the profoundest search can fathom, which not the strongest- 
winged love can overreach: the gulf of individuality. It is those who have 
loved most deeply who recognize most acutely this always pathetic and 
often terrifying isolation of the soul. None save the weak can believe in 
the absolute union of two spirits ... No man, no poet assuredly, could love 
as Browning loved, and fail to be aware, often with vague anger and bit- 
terness, no doubt, of this insuperable isolation even when spirit seemed 
to leap to spirit, in the touch of a kiss, in the evanishing sigh of some 
one or other exquisite moment." 

IN THREE DAYS 

"Another poem of waiting love is In Three Days. And this has the 
spirit of a true love lyric in it. It reads like a personal thing; it breathes 
exaltation; it is quick, hurried, and thrilled. The delicate fears of chance 
and changes in the three days, or in the years to come, belong of right and 
nature to the waiting, and are subtly varied and condensed. It is, how- 
ever, the thoughtful love of a man who can be metaphysical in love." 
(Stopford Brooke: Poetry of Robert Browning, p. 253.) 

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL 

Fano. This poem was written in the summer of 1848 after a visit of 
three days at Fano. It is addressed to Alfred Domett, one of Browning's 
warm friends, who was at that time in New Zealand on the Wairoa River. 
For a vivid description of him see Browning's Waring. The picture at 
Fano, the details of which are fully brought out in the poem, has been 
reproduced in Illustrations to Browning's Poems, Part I., published by the 
Browning Society. Mrs. Browning {Letters 1:380) speaks of it as "a divine 
picture of Guercino's worth going all that way to see." 

6. Another child for tending. With a longing for guidance and protec- 
tion Browning imagines himself as a child under the guardianship of the 
angsl 



404 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

16. Like that child. The child in the picture looks into the heavens, 
Browning would look only at the gracious face of the angel. 

46. My angel. Cf. "My love," 1. 54. Both refer to Mrs. Browning. 

MEMORABILIA 

Pauline (1832) has many references to Shelley; note especially lines 
151-229; 102a-1031. Browning's Essay on Shelley appeared in 1852. 
Memorabilia was composed in 1853-4. 

18-28. That later in life Browning "came to think unfavorably of 
Shelley as a man and to esteem him less highly as a poet" is shoWn by a 
letter written to Dr. Furnivall: "For myself I painfully contrast my 
notions of Shelley the man and Shelley, well, even the poet, with what 
they were sixty years ago." (Quoted by Mr. Dowden: Robert Brouning 
p. 10.) Mr. Browning declined an invitation to be president of the Shelley 
Society. For a discussion of Shelley's influence on Browning see Poet- 
Lore, Vol. VII., Jan., 1895. 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

Ratisbon, a city of Bavaria, was stormed by Napoleon in 1809. The 
story told in the poem is a true one, but its hero was a man, not a boy. 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

The original title in Dramatic Lyrics, 1842, vas Italy. It is a poem of 
the Italian Renaissance. Fra Pandolf and Glaus ol Innsbruck are, 
however, imaginary artists. 

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL 

There is no known original for the story of Theocrite, but It is In accord 
with the Roman Catholic belief that angels watch over human beings 
and are interested in their affairs. In the last line is the fundamental 
lesson of the poem. Compare the thought of Pippa in the song "All serv- 
ice ranks the same with God." See Leigh Hunt's King Robert of Sicily 
(in Jar of Honey, ch. VI".) and Longfellow's King Robert of Sicily (in Tales 
of a Wayside Inn) for an analogous legend. 

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 

This poem was written to amuse little "Willie Macready who was 111 
and wished a poem for which he could make illustrations. There are 
many legends that deal with the refusal of a reward promised to a magician 
for some stipulated service. Mr. Berdoe (Browning Cyclopaedia, p. 339) 
says that the story given here is based on an accoimt by Verstegan in his 
Restitution of Decayed Intelligence (1634). Verstegan gives "Bunting" 
as the name of the piper; the town, as Hamelin in Brunswick on the Weser; 
and the mountain into which the children were led as the Koppenberg. 



NOTES 405 

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS 

When Mr. Browning was little more than a child he heard a woman 
one Guy Fawkes' Day sing in the street a strange song whose burden was. 
"Following the Queen of the Gipsies, O!" The singular refrain haunted 
liis memory for many years, and out of it was ultimately born this poem. 

6-31. The Duke's mediaeval castle was apparently in Northern Ger- 
many, near the sea. 

78, Rough-foot merlin. A species of hawk formerl y trained to pursue 
other, birds and game. A "falcon-lanner" is a long-tailed hawk. The word, 
when used in falconry, is restricted to the female hawk, which is larger than 
the male. 

101. Struck at himself. Amazed at his own importance. 

130. Urochs. The aurochs, the European bison, a species nearly ex- 
tinct but preserved in the forests of Lithuania and the Caucasus. The 
"buffle" is the buffalo. 

135-63. Compare this lady with the one in My Last Duchess. 

216. Well, early in autumn. In writing The Flight of the Duchesa 
Browning was interrupted by a friend on some important business which 
temporarily drove the story out of the poet's mind. Some months after 
the publication of the first part in Hood's Magazine. April, 1845, he was 
staying at Bettisfield Park in Shropshire when some one in commenting 
on the early approach of winter said that already the deer had to break 
the Ice in the pond. This chance phrase roused the poet's fancy, and 
when he returned home he completed his poem. 

238. St. Hubert. Before his conversion St. Hubert had been pas- 
sionately fond of hunting; hence he became the patron saint of hunters. 

240-7. "The jerkin" or short coat; the "trunk- hose, " or full breeches 
extending from the waist to the middle of the thigh; the big rimless hats 
with broad projections back and front and highly ornamented, were me- 
diaeval articles of attire revived by the Duke for his "Middle Age" hunt- 
ing party. 

249. Venerers, Prickers, and Verderers are ancient names for huntsmen, 
horsemen, and preservers of venison. 

263. Horns wind a mort. Horns announce the death of the stag: 
"at siege" probably means, "brought to the appointed station." Pos- 
sibly It means "at bay." in which case "wind a mort" must mean "an- 
nounce that the death of the stag is imminent." 

264. Prick forth. Spur her horse forth. She was to ride a jennet, 
a small Spanish horse known in the Middle Ages. 

315. Quince-tinct. Tincture of quince was used as a cosmetic. 

322. Fifty-part canon. "Mr. Browning explained that a 'canon In 
music, is a piece wherein the subject is repeated in various keys, and, 
being strictly obeyed in the repetition, becomes the canon, the imperative 
law to what follows.' Fifty of such parts would be indeed a notable peal; 
to manage three is enough of an achievement for a good musician." Berdoe: 
Cyclopaedia: p. 180. 



406 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

480. The hand-roll. Her head was ornamented with a band on which 
were strun? Persian coins. 

633. Gor-crow's flappers. Wings of carrion crow. 

581. Like the spots. Effects of phosphorescence. 

845. I have seen my little lady. It is not clear where or when he saw 
her. Possibly he refers only to his revived memory of her. 

852. And floats me. This construction is what is known 

as the "ethical dative." The old servant merely says in jocose fashion 
that telling his story has made his blood course more rapidly and freely. 



A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 

The Revival of Learning. The Revival of Learnin-? or Renaissance 
began as early as the tenth century. Its period of most rapid progress was 
from the twelfth century to the fifteenth. One phase of the interest in 
the revival of learning was the effort to restore Latin to its ancient purity. 
The word "grammarian" was more widely inclusive than now, meaning 
one who devoted himself to general learning. Of this poem Dr. Burton in 
Renaissance Pictures in Browning (Poet-Lore, Vol. X., pp. 60-76, No. 1, 
1898) says: "I know of no lyric of the poet's more representative of his pe- 
culiar and virile strength than this, in that it makes vibrant and thoroughly 
emotional an apparently unemotional tlieme. In relation to the Renais- 
sance, the revival of learning, the moral is the higher inspiration derived 
from the new wine of the classics, so that what in later times has cooled 
down too often to a dry-as-dust study of the husks of knowledge is shown 
to be, at the start, a veritable revelling in the delights of the fruit." 

Mr. Stopford Brooke in Poetry of Browning, p. 155, says, "This is the 
artist at work, and I doubt whether all the laborious prose written, in 
history and criticism, on the revival of learning, will ever express better 
than this short poem the inexhaustible thirst of the Renaissance in its 
pursuit of knowledge, or the enthusiasm of the pupils of a New Scholar for 
his desperate strife to know in a short life the very center of the universe." 

3. Leave we the common crofts. As the procession starts up the hill 
they leave behind them the small farms and little villages of the plain. 

8. Rock-row. Day is just breaking over the rocky summits of the 
mountains. 

9, There, man's thought. The smoking crater of a volcano, described 
as a .censer from which rise the fumes of incense, portends an outbreak 
of subterranean fire. The speaker fancifully considers this an appro- 
priate spot in which to bury the scholar whose passionate eagerness of 
thought chafed continually against the bounds of custom and ignorance 
and human weakness. 

14. Sepulture. Pronounced here, sepitUure. A burial place or tomb. 
25. Step to a tune. Here and in various other places, as lines 41, 73, 
76, etc., are directions to the pallbearers. 



NOTES ^^^ 



34 Ly.. Apollo. The god Apollo was the ideal of manly beauty. 
The Grammarian was, it seems, endowed with rare charm of face and form. 

36 Ton. he lived nameless. Youth had passed before the Grammanan 
realb- entered upon his quest for knowledge. But he did not despair. 
His vanishing of youth was but a signal to "leave play for work. 

46 GrappzL with the world. The world of knowledge, especially ancient 
ipamin" which was recovered slowly and with difficulty. 
^ rleL He wishes to study the "shaping" or writings of poets 

and sages." 

50 Gowned. Put on the scholastic gown. 

ll Queasy. Sick at the stomach. He could not get knowledge 
enough to make him feel a distaste for it. , „ , .^ ..^„^u „ 

65-C8 "It" in 1. 66 refers to 1. 67. The "it" in 1. 68 refers to su.h a 

^'^70 ^' Fancy the fabric. Under the figure of making a complete plan 
be o^e beginning to build a house, he describes the Grammarian s purpose 
to know the whole scheme of life before he lived out any part of it. 

se cTculus and tussis (1. 88) are diseases, the stone and bronchitis. 



^1L"rS'X..c. "Hydroptic" is a rare word ^or^^^V^^ 
103. God's task, etc. He neglected the body magnified the mm 
believed that the full realization of his aspirations would come in the 



3. That Low man. iiiis cumpc^^i^wxx ^^-- . . j ; c^r-tn 

the "high man" could be effectively illustrated from Andrea ^^^ "^ar^o^ 
Andrea i^ the "low man" who with his skilful hand "goes on adding 
;':'r one- till he attains his "hundred." or excellence of techmque. 



•^^^^irSt: man. This comparison betwe^ the;. ow^m^n^^ 

le "1 
ndre 

rFcri'." "irz^TTCS sx'zs,-. 

which there was much learned discussion. 

"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME" 

Mrs Orr (Handbook of Browning's Works, p. 274) «^y«^°^this poem: 

whWi Mr Browntag once saw in the Carrara Mountains, a painting which 



408 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

line from 'King Lear,' which forms the heading of tlie poem." The pos- 
sible allegorical wgnification of the poem has been the subject of much 
and often of singularly futile discussion. Dr. Furnivall said he had asked 
Browning if it was an allegory, and in answer had on three separate 
occasions received an emphatic statement that it was simply a dramatic 
creation called forth by a line of Shakespeare's. (Porter-Clarke: Study 
Programmes, p. 406.) Yet allegorical interpretations continue to be 
made. According to one line of interpretation the pilgrim is a "truth- 
seeker, misdirected by the lying spirit" (the hoary cripple), and when he 
blows the slug-horn it is as a warning to others that he has failed in his 
quest, and that the way to the dark tower is the way of destruction and 
death. (Berdoe: Browning Cyclopaedia, p. 105.) According to Other 
readings of the tale the blast which the pilgrim blows at the end of his 
quest is one of "spiritual victory and incitement to others." When the 
Rev. John S. Chadwick visited the poet and asked him if constancy to an 
ideal — "He that endiireth to the end shall be saved" — was not a sufficient 
understanding of the central purpose of the poem, Browning said: "Yes, 
just about that." With constancy to an ideal as the central purpose, 
the details of this poem, without being minutely interpreted, may yet 
serve as a representation of the depression, the hopelessness, the dull- 
ness and deadness of soul, the doubt and terror even, of the man who 
travels the last stages of a difficult journey to a long-sought but unknown 
goal. His victory consists in ths unfaltering persistence of his search. 
The "squat tower" when he reaches it is prosaic and ugly, but finding it is 
after all not the essential point. The essential element of his success is 
that, encircled by the last temptations to despair, he holds heart and brain 
stead5\ and carries out his quest to its last detail. (See an article in The 
Critic, May 3, 1886, by Mr. Arlo Bates, in opposition to any definite 
allegory. Mr. Nettleship in Robert Browning [p. 89] devotes a chapter 
to a paraphrase and an allegorical explanation.) 

Mr. Herford {Life of Browning, p. 94) calls the poem "a great romantic 
legend" and emphasizes its intensity and boldness of invention. He com- 
pares its "horror- world" with that of Coleridge in the Ancient Mariner. 
"What the Ancient Mariner is in the poetry of the mysterious terrors 
and splendours of the sea, that Childe Roland is in the poetry of bodeful 
horror, of haunted desolation, of waste and plague, ragged distortion, 
and rotting ugliness in landscape. The Childe, like the Mariner, advances 
through an atmosphere and scenery of steadily gathering menace." 

Mr. Chesterton says of the scenery: "It is . . . the poetry of the shabby 
and hungry aspect of the earth itself. Daring poets who wished to escape 
from the conventional gardens and orchards had long been in the habit 
of celebrating the poetry of rugged and gloomy landscapes, but Browning 
is not content with this. He insists on celebratin-? the poetry of mean 
landscapes. That sense of scrubbiness in nature, as of a man unshaved, 
had never been conveyed with this enthusiasm and primeval gusto before." 
{Robert Browning, p. 159.) 



NOTES 409 

HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY 

The story of an obscure poet in the Spanish city of Valladolid. The 
poem brings out his actual life and the town-follc's misinterpretations ot 
it. Reports multiply upon themselves and take new meanings till' the 
Harmless poet is generally accounted the king's spy and the real agent of 
all royal edicts, the town's master, in fact. The interest which, as a poet, 
he takes in all manifestations of life is popularly supposed to be the alert- 
ness of a secret agent of the government. The reams of poetry he writes 
are transformed into letters of information to the king. Rumor trans- 
lates the poet's perfectly decent, regular, meager life into secret sybaritic 
extravagances. 

7. Though none did. His suit had once been fashionable, but, though 
still serviceable, was of a sort no longer worn by his fellow townsmen. 

25. The coffee-roaster's brazier. The coffee is roasted in a dish that is 
made to revolve over the coals in an open pan or basin. 

74. Beyond the Jewry. Beyond the Jew's quarter, a squalid portion 
of the city. 

90. The Corregidor. The Spanish title for a magistrate. 

104. Here had been. The poet, misconceived by his generation, poor, 
and lonely, has yet a great spiritual personality. Men see the old coat. 
God, the King for whom he works, sees his real nature; hence heavenly 
guards attend when this man comes to die. 

115. The Prado. The chief fashionable promenade of Madrid. 

FRA LIPPO LIPPI 

Fra Lippo Lippi was born in Florence in 1406. See Vasari's Lives of 
the Painters for the account of his life on which Browning based his poem. 
(Vasari's account is quoted in Cooke's Browning Guide Book.) 

2. You need not clap your torches. Throughout this lively dramatic 
monologue it is important to mark every indication of the words or ges- 
*,ures of the auditors; for instance, in lines 13, 18, 26, etc. 

7. The Carmine. Fra Lippo Lippi's entrance into the monastery of 
the friars del Carmine and his education there are described later m the 
poem He lived there till he was twenty-six. He had no vocation for 
the life of a monk and wished to devote himself to painting. He appar- 
ently left the monastery on good terms with the friars ,,,«^,,^,, 

17 Master— a Cosimo of the Medici. Cosimo de MediCi (1389-1464) 
was a rich Florentine banker and statesman. He was a magnificent patron 
of art and literature. The old Medici palace (1. 17). now known as Palazzo 
Riccardi, is on the corner of the Via Cavour and the Via Gori. The 
church of San Lorenzo (the "Saint Laurence" of 1. 67) is a short distance 
farther west on the Via Gori. , ^ 

22. Pick up a manner: The painter protests against the rougli usage 
to which he has heen subjected. 



410 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

23. Zooks. An interjection formerly written "gadzooks." Pilchards 
are a common clieap fish of the Mediterranean and are taken in seines. 

28. Quarter-florin. The florin was a gold coin of Florence. It was first 
struck off m the twelfth century and was called a florin because it had a 
flower stamped on one side. ^ 

31. I'd Wee his face. The painter cannot look upon the crowd of men 
about him without seeing faces he would like to draw. Oiie man would 
do as a model for Judas. Another would do well in a picture Fra Lippo's 
imagmation quickly conjures up of a slave holding the head of John 
the Baptist by the hair. In Fra Lippo's real picture of the beheading 
of John the Baptist the head is brought in by Salome, the daughter 
of Herodias, on a great platter. 

46. Carnival. The days preceding Lent. A period marked by much 
gaiety, street revelry, masking, etc. 

53. Flower o' the broom. These flower songs, called stomelli, are im- 
provised by the peasants at their work. "The stornelli consist of three 
lines. The first line usually contains the name of a flower which sets the 
rhyme and is five syllables long. Then the love theme is told in two lines 
of eleven syllables each, agreeing by rhyme, assonance, or repetition with 
the first." (Porter and Clarke note in Camberwell Edition.) Browning 
does not follow the model strictly. 

nJ^\'^^'''"^^' ^^- Jerome was one of the Fathers of the Christian 
Church. During a part of his early life he was given up to worldly pleas- 
ures, and for this he did penance by living for a number of years in a cave 
in a desert region. The penitent St. Jerome was a popular devotional 
subject in early Christian art. "The scene is generally a wild rocky 
solitude: St. Gerome, half-naked, emaciated, with matted hair and beard 
IS seen on his knees before a crucifix, ideating his breast with a stone "' 
(Mrs. Jameson: Sacred and Legendary Art, 1: 308.) 

80. What am T a beast for. If you had happened, says Fra Lippo. 
to catch Cosimo in a frolic like this, of course you would have said nothing- 
but you think a monk is a beast if he indulges in these nocturnal pleas^ 
ures. Yet why should the fact that I break monastic rules make you con- 
sider me a beast? Just let me tell you how I happened to become a monk. 
83. / starved there. ■ Note the vivid picture of the life of a street gamin 
here and m lines 112-126. 

88. Aunt Lapaccia. Vasari says, "The child was for some time under 
the care of a certain Mona Lapaccia, his aunt, who brought him up with 
very great difficulty till he had attained his eighth year, when, being no ' 
longer able to support the burden of his maintenance, she placed him in 
the above-named convent of the Carmelites." "Trussed," means "firmly 
seized." •' 

117. Which gentlemen, etc. Gentlemen clad in fine ecclesiastical robes 
walk in the religious procession and carry tall wax candles or torches; 
the drippings from these candies the street-urchin wishes to catch in 
order to sell them again, but if is against the law, and the fine gentlemen 



A\ 



NOTES 411 

if not kindly disposed may call in the magistrates ("The Eight") and have 
the boy whipped. 

130. The antiphonary' s marge. He scrawled his slcetches on the 
margins of the book used by the choir, and he made faces out of the notes, 
which were then square with long stems. 

139. We Carmelites. The tliree orders of monks, the Carmelites, the 
Camaldolese, and the Dominicans (called "Preaching Brothers" by Pope 
Innocent III.) owned various monasteries and churches, and were each 
ambitious to possess the greatest sacred paintings. 

145-163. These lines describe the different figures painted on the wall 
by Fra Lippo when the prior bade him "daub away." The monks dressed 
in black or white according to the garb of their orders; the old women 
waiting to confess small thefts; the row of admiring little children gazing 
at a bearded fellow, a murderer who, still breathing hard with the run 
that has brought him in safety to the altar steps, defies the "white anger" 
of his victim's son, who has followed him into the church; the girl who 
loves the brute of a murderer, and brings him flowers, food, and her ear- 
rings to aid him when he shall escape — all these are painted on the wall. 
Then the young artist took down the ladder by means of wJiich he had 
reached the bit of cloister-wall where he had been recording his observa- 
tions of life, and called the monks to see. 

156. Whose sad face. The purpose of Christ's suffering ("passion") 
on the cross was to bring love into the world, but after a thousand years 
of his teaching his image looks down upon theft, anger, murder. 

172. My triumph's straw-fire. Lippo's triumph was as short-lived as 
a flre of straw. The monks were delighted with the realism of the paint- 
ing, but when the Prior and the critics came they declared that such 
"homage to the perishable clay" was a mere "devil's game." The busi- 
ness of the painter, they said, was to ignore the body and paint the soul. 

184. Man's soul. Note the difficulty the Prior experiences when lie 
tries to describe the "soul" he wishes the artist to paint. Lines 185-6 
represent an old superstition. 

189-198. In contrast to the homely realism of Fra Lippo's picture of 
ordinary people are the idealism, the religious symbolism, of the pictures 
of Giotto, a painter a century and a half earlier than Fra Lippo, and the 
greatest master of the early school of Italian art. 

183-214. An exposition of Fra Lippo's idea of painting. He says that 
it is nonsense to ignore the body in order to make the soul pre-eminent, 
that the painter should go a "double step" and paint both body and soul. 
He may make the face of a girl as lovely and life-like as possible, and at 
the same time show her soul in her face. 

215-220. A defence of the value of beauty for its own sake. Cf. Keats: 
Ode to a Grecian Urn, and the beginning of Endymion. Fra Lippo Lippi 
has been long out of convent limitations, but he cannot forget how certain 
the monks were that he had cliosen the wrong path, and that he could 
never equal the great painter, Fra Angelico (1389-1455), who, kneeling 



412 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

in adoration, painted lovely saints and angels, nor even Lorenzo Monaca, 
a Florentine painter with the same tendencies as Angelico. 

257. Out at grass. Grass in this passage stands for enjoyment of life 
as opposed to asceticism. 

276. Guidi. Tommaso Guidi, ordinarily known as Masaccio, or 
Tomassacio, Slovenly or Hulking Tom. Browning followed good author- 
ity in making Masaccio a pupil of Fra Lippo Lippi, but in point of fact he 
was probably the master whose works Fra Lippo studied. Liibke {His- 
tory of Art, 2:207) says of Guidi: "In his exceedingly short life he rapidly 
traversed the various stages of development of earlier art, and pressed on 
with a bold confidence to a greatness and power of vision which have ren- 
dered his works the characteristic ones of an epoch, and his example a 
decisive influence in all the art of the fifteenth century . . . Almost every 
master in the fifteenth century . . . studied these great works and learned 
from them. One of the first of these masters was Fra Lippo Lippi." The 
important point is that Fra Lippo and Masaccio were both pioneers in the 
new art which took infinite pains in the representation of the body. 
Masaccio is said to have been the first Italian artist to paint a nude 
figure. 

323. A Saint Laurence . . . at Prato. Prato, a town near Florence, 
attracted many artists in the fifteenth century, so that one finds there 
many specimens of Early Renaissance painting. Some of the most 
important of Fra Lippo Lippi's large works are in the Cathedral at 
Prato. 

326-334. The people have been so enraged at the slaves who are pic- 
tured as assisting in the martyrdom of St. Laurence that the faces of these 
slaves have been scratched from the wall. The monks thinklthe picture 
a huge success because it has thus roused religious zeal. 

339. Chianti wine; a famous wine named from Chianti, a mountain 
group near Siena, Italy. 

346. Sant' Ambrogio's. The picture described here is the "CoronatioQ 
of the Virgin" now in the Accademia delle Belle Arti of Florence. Sant* 
Ambrogio is a Florentine church named after St. Ambrose, a Bishop of 
Milan. 

354. St. John. The Baptist. Note the reference to camel's hair 
raiment in 1. 375. The Battistero, the original csithedrixloi Florence, was 
dedicated to John the Baptist. Some say the reliefs on one of its famous 
bronze doors represent scenes from his life. To this church all children 
born in Florence are brought to be baptized. 

357, Job. See Job 1:1. 

360. t/2> shall come. Artists not infrequently painted their own 
portraits in their pictures. In the "Coronation of the Virgin" Fra Lippo's 
round tonsured head is seen in the loAver right hand corner. 

377. Iste perfecit opus: "This one did the work." 

381. Hot cockles: An old English game in which a blind-folded player 
"Ties to guess the names of those who touch or strike him. 



NOTES 413 



ANDREA DEL SARTO 

Andrea del Sarto's father was a tailor (Sarto) and so the son was nick- 
named "The Tailor's Andrew." He was born in 1486. His first paint- 
ings were seven frescoes in the Church of the Annunziata in Florence. 
They were "marvelous productions for a youth who was little over twenty, 
and remain Andrea's most charming and attractive works." (Julia 
Cartwright: The Painters of Florence.) Algernon Charles Swinburne 
in Essays and Studies ("Notes and Designs on the Old Masters at 
-Florence") says of Andrea's early paintings in comparison with his 
later work: "These are the first fruits of his flowering manhood, when 
the bright and buoyant genius in him had free play and large delight 
in its handiwork; when the fresh interest of invention was still his, and 
the dramatic sense, the pleasure in the play of life, the power of motion 
and variety; before the old strength of sight and of fliglit had passed 
from weary wing and clouding eye, the old pride and energy of enjoyment 
had gone out of hand and heart. 

"How the change fell upon him, and how it wrought, anyone may see 
wlio compares his later with his earlier work . . . The time came when an- 
other than Salome [referring to Andrea del Sarto's picture of Salome danc- 
ing before Herod] was to dance before the eyes of the painter; and she 
roTuired of him the head of no man, but his own soul; and he paid the 
forfeit into her hands ... In Mr. Browning's noblest poem — his noblest, 
it seems to me — the whole tragedy is distilled into the right words, the 
whole man raised up and reclothed with flesh. One point only is but 
lightly touched upon — missed it could not be by an eye so sharp and 
skilful — the eflect upon his art of the poisonous solvent of love. How 
his life ■was corroded by it, and his soul burnt into dead ashes we are 
shown in fxiU ; but we are not shown in full what as a painter he was 
before, what as a nainter he might have been withoijt it." 

The bare facts oi this poem are taken from Vasari's Lives of the Painters. 
Vasari, once a pupil of Andrea del Sarto, hated Lucrezia and in his account 
spared no details of her evil influence. Later chronicles give a somewhat 
more favorable view of her, but the main facts of the story remain un- 
disputed. Of the origin of the poem, Mrs. Andrew Crosse (see "John 
Kenyon and his Friends" in Temple Bar Magazine, April, 1900) writes: 
"When the Brownings were living in Florence, Kenyon had begged them 
to procure him a copy of the portrait in the Pitti of Andrea del Sarto and 
his wife. Mr. Browning was unable to get the copy made with any promise 
of satisfaction, and so wrote the exquisite poem of Andrea del Sarto — 
and sent it to Kenyon!" For another literary presentation of Andrea 
del Sarto see Andre del Sarto, a play by Alfred de Musset. 

IG. Fiesole. A town on a hill above the Arno about three miles 
northwest of Florence. See Pippa Passes. 

49. We are in God's hand. Andrea's fatalistic view of life aids him in 
escaping the poignancy of remorse. 



414 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

65. The Legate's talk. The representative of the Pope praised Andrea's 
work. For the liigh esteem accorded Andrea when he was in Paris at the 
court of Francis I., see lines 149-lGl. 

82. This low- pulsed forthright craftsman's hand. Eugene Mimtz (Quoted 
in Masters of Art series, in the number entitled Andrea del Sarto) says of 
Andrea's skill: No painter has excelled him in the rendering of Hesh . . . 
Xo painter, moreover, has surpassed him in his grasp of the infinite 
resources of the palette. All the secrets of riclmess, softness, and mor- 
bif/fr-rt. all the mysteries of pastoso and sfumato were his. It is not then as 
a technician that we must deny Andrea del Sarto the right to rank with 
the very greatest. It is as an artist (.using the word in its highest sense) 
liiat he falls below them, for he was lacking in the loftier qualities of 
imagination, sentiment, and, worst of all, conviction." Histoire de I' Art 
pendent la Renaissance. 

93. Morello. A mountain of the Apennines and visible from Florence. 

98. Or what's a heaven for. According to Browning's theory, per- 
fection gained and rested in means stagnation. Aspiration towards 
the unattainable is the condition of growth. The artist who can 
satisfy himself with such themes as can be completely expressed by his 
art, is on a low level of experience and attainment. 

105. The Urbinate. Raphael Sanzio of Urbino, one of the greatest 
of Italian painters. He died in 1520; hence the date of this poem is sup- 
posed to be 1525. 

136. Agnolo. Michael Agnolo (less correctly, Angelo), 1475-15G6 
great both as sculptor and painter. 

149. Francis. Francis I. of France was a patron of the arts. When 
Andrea was thirty-two and had been married Ave years. King Francis 
sent for him to come to Fontainebleau. the most sumptuous of the French 
royal palaces. Andrea greatly enjoyed the splendor and hospitality oi 
the French court, and he Avas happy in his successful work, when Lucrezia 
called him home. He obtained a vacation of two months and took with 
him money with which to make purchases for the French king. This 
money he used to buy a house for Lucrezia. 

241. Scudi. Italian coins worth about ninety-six cents each. 

261. Four great icalls. Revelation XXI. 15-17. 

263. Leonard. Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519), one of the greatest 
of Italian painters. 

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT ST. PRAXED'S CHURCH 

There is an old church in Rome in honor of St. Praxed or Praxedes. 
The Bishop's Tomb, however, "is entirely fictitious although something 
which is made to stand for it is now shown to credulous sight-seers." 
(Mrs. Orr: Handbook to Robert Browning's Works, p. 247.) 

Ruskin says of this poem: "Robert Browning is imerring in every 
sentence he writes of the Middle Ages — always vital, right, and profound, 



NOTES 4ir, 

so that in the matter of art, with which we are specially concerned, there 
is hardly a principle connected with the mediaeval temper that he has not 
struck upon in these seemingly careless and too rugged lines of his . . .1 
know no other piece of modern English prose or poetry in which there is 
so much told, as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit — its worldliness, 
inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury! 
and of good Latin. It is nearly all that I have said of the central Renais- 
sance, in thirty pages of The Stones of Venice, put into as many lines, 
Browning's also being the antecedent work." {Modem Paint'-rs, Vol. IV ., 
pp. 337-9.) "It was inevitable that the great period of the Renaissance 
should produce men of the type of the Bishop of St. Praxed; it would 
be grossly unfair to set him down as the type of the churchmen of his 
time." Berdoe: Browning Cyclojjaedia, p. 81. 

1. Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity; Cf. 11. 8-9, 51-2, as illustrative 
of the religious professionalism of the Bishop's talk. He drops into the 
ecclesiastical conception of life and death, and into the phraseology of his 
order. 

21. Epistle-side. The right-hand side facing the altar, where the 
epistle is read by the priest acting as celebrant, the gospel being read from 
the other side by the priest acting as assistant. 

29. Peach-blossom marble. This rosy marble delights the Bishop as 
much as the pale cheap onion-stone offends him. The lapis-lazuli, a 
rich blue stone (1. 42), the antique-black (Nero-antico), a rare black marble 
(1. 34), the beautiful green jasper (1. 68), the elaborate carving planned 
for the bronze frieze (1. 56-62, 106-111), show not only that the Bishop 
covets what is costly, but that his highly cultivated taste knows real 
beauty. 

34. That conflagration. The eagerness of the Bishop for the lump of 
the lapis-lazuli has made him steal even from his own church. 

41. Olive-frail. A basket made of rushes, used for packing olives. 
67. Those Pans and Nymphs. The underlying paganism of the Bishop 
produces a strangely incongruous mixture on his tomb — the Saviour, St. 
Praxed, Moses, Pan and the Nymphs. 

58. Thyrsus. The ivy-coiled staff or spear stuck in a pine-cone, 
symbol of the Bacchic orgy. 

66. Travertine. A white limestone, the name being a corruption of 
Tiburninus, from Tibur, now Tivoli, near Rome, whence this stone comes. 
77. Choice Latin. The Bishop's scholarship was as good as his taste 
in marbles. The Elucescebat ("he was illustrious") of 1. 99 Browning 
called "dog-latin" and he called "Ulpian the golden jurist a copper latinist." 
(See letter to D. G. Rossetti. Quoted by A. J. George: Select Poems of 
Browning, p. 366.) TuUy's Latin was Cicero's (Marcus Tullius Cicero), 
the purest classic style. The Grammarian in The Grammarian's Funeral 
was equally intense on a point of elegance or correctness in the ancient 
languages. 



416 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

80-84. The Bishop rejoices in all that has to do with the forms and 
ceremonies of the church. Note in 11. 119-121 his insistence on form and 
order. 

91. Strange thoughts. From this point on the Bishop's mind seems to 
wander. 

108. A visor and a term. The visor is a mask. A term is any bust 
or half-statue not placed upon but incorporated with, and as it were 
immediately springing out of the square pillar which serves as its pedestal 

CLEON 

The quotation preceding this poem is from Acts of the Apostles, Chapter 
XVII: 28, and is, in full, "As certain also of your own poets have said, 
'For we are also his off -spring.' " The poet thus referred to by Paul was 
Aratus, a Greek poet from Tarsus, Paul's own city. The Cleon and 
Protus of Browning's poem are not historical characters, but they are 
representative of the tone of thought and inquiry on the part of the 
Greek philosopliers at the time of Paul. Lines 1-1 58 give an account of 
the achievements of Cleon, a man who has attained eminence in the 
various realms of poetry, philosophy, painting, and sculpture. He is not 
in any one accomplishment equal to the great poets, musicians, or artists 
of the past, and yet he represents progress because he is able to enter 
into sjnnpathy with the great achievements in all these realms. 

1. Sprinkled isles. Presumably the Sporades, the "scattered isles." 

4. Protus in his Tyranny. Free government [in Greece] having 
superseded the old hereditary sovereignties, all who obtained absolute 
power in a state were called tyrants, or rather despots; for the term 
indicates the irregular way in which the power was given rather than the 
way in which" it was exercised. Tyrants might be mild in exercise of 
authority, and like Protus, liberal in their patronage of the arts. 

8. Gift after gift. Protus, a patron of the arts, shows his apprecia 
tion of the work of Cleon by many royal gifts. Chief among the slaves, 
black and white, sent by Protus, is one white woman in a briglit yellow 
wool robe, who is especially commissioned to present a beautiful cup. 
Lines 136-S are also descriptive of this girl. 

41. Zeus. The chief of the Grecian gods. 

47. That epos. An epic poem by Cleon engraved on golden plates. 

51. The image of the sun-god on the phare. Cleon has made a statue 
of Apollo for a light-house. Phare is from the island of Pharos where 
there was a famous light-house. 

63. The PcBcile. The Portico of Athens painted with battle pictures 
by Polygnotus. 

60. For music. "In Greek music the scales were called moods or modes 
and were subject to great variation in the arrangement of tones and 
semitones." (Porter-Clarke, note in Camberwell edition.) 

82. The chequered pavement. Tliis pavement of black and white 
marble in an elaborate pattern of various sorts of four-sided figures was a 
gift to Cleon from his own nation. 



*^\ 



NOTES 417 

100-112. The similitude is involved but fairly clear. The water that 
touches the sphere here and there, one point at a time, as the spliere is 
revolved, represents the power of great geniuses who each at one point 
have reached great heights. The air that fills the spliere represents the 
composite modern mind that synthesizes the parts into a great whole. 

132. Drupe. Any stone-fruit. The contrast is between the wild 
plum and the cultivated plum. 

139. Homer. The poet to whom very ancient tradition assigns the 
authorship of the Iliad and the Odyssey. Terpander, the father of Greek 
music, flourished about 700-650 B. C. Phidias, a famous Athenian sculp- 
tor, lived 500-432 B. C. His friend was Pericles the ruler of Athens. 

304. Sappho. A Greek poetess. She wrote about 600 B. C. 

306. Mschylus, a Greek tragic poet, 525-456 B. C. 

340. Paulus. Paul died about 64 A. D. The date of this poem is 
therefore about the last quarter of the first century A. D. Cleon had heard 
so vaguely about the Christian religion that he did not know the difference 
between Christ and Paul. The "doctrine" spoken of in the last line was 
the Christian teaching concerning immortality. The Greek, Cleon, had 
felt a longing to believe in another existence in which man would have 
xmlimited capability for joy, but Zeus had revealed no such doctrine, 
and the cultivated Greek was not ready to receive it at the hands of a man 
like Paul. 

ONE WORD MORE 

A poem directly addressed to Mrs. Browning. It was originally ap- 
pended to the collection of Poems called Men and Women. For other 
tributes by great poets to their wives see Wordsworth's She was a phan- 
tom of delight, and O dearer far than life and light are dear; and Tennyson's 
Dear, near and true. Mrs. Browning's love for her husband had found 
passionate expression in Sonnets from the Portuguese. 

2. Naming me. Giving a name to the volume for me. 

•5-31. Raphael's "lady of the sonnets" was Margharita (La Fornarina) 
the baker's daughter, whose likeness appears in several of his most cele- 
brated pictures. The Madonnas enumerated in 11. 22-5 are the Sistine 
Madonna, now in the Dresden Gallery; the Madonna di Foligno, so called 
because it had been painted as a votive offering for Sigismund Corti of 
Foligno; the Madonna del Granduca (Pitti Palace, Florence) in which 
the Madonna is represented as appearing to a votary in a vision; and 
probably the Madonna called La Belle Jardiniere in the Louvre. There 
is no evidence that Raphael wrote more than one sonnet, or three at most. 
The "century of sonnets" attributed to him by Browning "is probably 
an example of poetical license." The volume Guido Reni treasured and 
left to his heir was a volume with a hundred designs by Raphael. (Berdoe: 
Browning Cyclopaedia, p. 297.) 



418 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

32-67. Dante's chief work was his great poem, the Inferno, in which 
were caustic sketches of evil men of various sorts. Tlie sketch in the lines 
35-41 is made up from two descriptions {Inferno, Cantos 32, 33) of traitors, 
the one to his country, the other to a familiar friend. The second of 
these was still alive when Dante wrote (W. M. Rossetti: Academy, Jan. 10, 
1891). Beatrice, or Bice, was the woman Dante loved. It was on the 
first anniversary of her death that he began to draw the angel. Dante 
tells of this in the Vita Nuovo, XXXV., and there describes the inter- 
ruption of the "people of importance." 

63-4. To Raphael painting is an art that has become his nature; to 
Dante, poetry is an art that has become his nature. But this one time, 
for the woman of his love, each chooses the art in which he may have 
some natural skill but for which he has had no technical training. 

73-108. The "artist's sorrow" as contrasted with the "man's joy" 
is illustrated from the experience of Moses in conducting the children 
of Israel out of Egypt {Exodus: Ch. XVII.). His achievement savors of 
dis-relish because of the grumbling unbelief of the people, and because 
of the ungracious irritation into which he has been betrayed even when 
taxing his God-given power to the utmost in their belialf . He must hold 
steadily to his majesty as a prophet or he cannot control and so serve the 
crowd, but he covets the man's joy of doing supreme service to the 
woman whom he loves. 

97. Sinai-forehead' 3 clovsn brilliance. Exodus XIX: 9, 16; XXXIV: 30. 

101. J ethro's daughter. Zipporah, the wife of Moses. Exodus II: 16, 21. 

121. He who ivorks in fresco. The fresco painter uses large free strokes 
of the brush. But in order to give somethuig distinctive to the lady of 
his love he will try painting tiny illuminations on the margins of her missal. 

143. Be how I speak. That is, he usually writes dramatically, giving 
the experience and uttering the words of the characters he has created, 
such as the Arab physician, Karshish; the Greek Cleon; Norbert, the man 
whom the Queen loved in In a Balcony; the painter, Fra Lippo Lippi; the 
heroic pilgrim, Childe Roland; the painter, Andrea del Sarto. But now, 
for once, he speaks in his own person, directly to the woman he loves. 

144-166. In Florence they had seen the new moon, a mere crescent 
over the hill Fiesole, and had watched its growth till it hung, round and 
full, over the church of San Miniato. Now, in London, the moon is in 
its last quarter. 

163. Zoroaster. Founder of the Irano-Persian religion, the chief god 
of which, Varuna, was the god of light and of the illuminated night- 
heaven. 

164. Galileo. A celebrated Italian astronomer (1564-1642). 

166. Dumb to Homer. Homer celebrated the moon in the Hymn to 
Diana. Keats wrote much about the moon and the hero of his poem 
Endymion was represented as in love with the moon. 

172-179. See Exodus, Chapter XXIV. 



NOTES 419 

ABT VOGLER 

Abb6 (or Abt) Vogler (1749-1814) was a Catholic priest well known a 
century ajjo as an organist and a composer. He founded three schools of 
music, one at Mannheim, one at Stockholm, and one at Darmstadt. He 
was especially noted for his organ recitals, as many as 7,000 tickets having 
been sold for a single recital in Amsterdam. In 1798 it was said that 
he had then given over a thousand organ concerts. His knowledge of 
acoustics and his consequent skill in com):)ining the stops enabled him to 
bring much power and variety from organs with fewer pipes than were 
generally considered necessary. The remodelling and simpliflcation of 
organs was one of his most eagerly pursued activities. He not only re- 
arranged the pipes, but he introduced free reeds. Through some skilful 
Swedish organ-builders he Avas at last enabled to haAe an organ small 
enough to be portable, and constructed according to his ideas. Tliis he 
called an "orchestrion." Of Vogler's power as an organist Rinck says, 
"His organ-playing was grand, effective in the utmost degree." It was, 
however, when he was improvising that his power was most astonishing. 
Once at a musical soiree Vogler and Beethoven extemporized alternately, 
each giving the other a theme, and Gansbacher records tlie pitch of en- 
thusiasm to which he was roused by Vogler's masterly playing. Tliree 
of Vogler's most famous pupils at Darmstadt were Meyerbeer, Gansbaclier, 
and Carl Maria von Weber. The last of these gives an attractive picture 
of tbe musician extemporizing in the old church at Darmstadt. "Never," 
says Weber, "did Vogler in his extemporization drink more deeply at the 
source of all beauty, than when before liis three dear boys, as he liked to 
call us, he drew from ,the organ angelic voices and word of thunder." 
Browning's poem records the experiences of the musician in one of these 
moods of rapturous creation. 

The argument of the poem is thus given by Mr. Stopford Brooke in 
The Poetry of Robert Browning, p. 149. 

"When Solomon pronounced the Name of God, all the spirits, good 
and bad, assembled to do his will and build his palace. And when I, 
Abt Vogler, touched the keys, I called the Spirits of Sound to me, and they 
have built my palace of music; and to inhabit it all the Great Dead came 
back till in the vision I made a perfect music. Nay, for a moment, I 
touched in it the infinite perfection; but now it is gone; I cannot bring 
it back. Had I painted it, had I written it, I might have explained it. 
But in music out of the sounds something emerges which is above the 
sounds, and that ineffable thing I touched and lost. I took the well- 
known sounds of earth, and out of them came a fourth sound, nay not a 
sound — biit a star. This was a flash of God's will which opened the Eter- 
nal to me for a moment; and I shall find it again in the eternal life. There- 
fore, from the achievement of earth and the failure of it, I turn to God, 
and in him I see that every image, thought, impulse, and dream of knowl- 
edge or beauty — which, coming Avhence we know not, flit before us in 
human life, breathe for a moment, and then depart; which, like my music. 



420 SELECTIONS FROM BROAVNING 

build a sudden palace in imagination; which abide for an instant and 
dissolve, but which memory and hope retain as a ground of aspiration — 
are not lost to us though they seem to die in their immediate passage. 
Their music has its home in the Will of God and we shall find them com- 
pleted there." 

3. Solomon. In Jewish legend it is said that Solomon had power 
over angels and demons through a seal on which "the most great name of 
God was engraved." 

13. And one would bury his brow. This description of the foundations 
of the palace is not unlike Milton's account of the work of the fallen angels 
in building the palace in hell. (Paradise Lost, 1:170.) That "fabric huge" 
was as magical in its construction as the palace of Abt Vogler, for, though 
it was not built by music, it 

"Rose like an exhalation with the soimd 
Of Dulcet Sj-mphonies and voices sweet." 

16. Nether springs. Remotest origins. 

23. Rome's dome. The illumination of St. Peter's was formerly one 
of the customary spectacles on the evening of Easter Sunday. "At Ave- 
Maria we drove to Piazza of St. Peter's. The lighting of the lanternoni, 
or large paper lanterns, each of which looks like a globe of ethereal fire, 
had been going on for an hour, and by the time we arrived there was 
nearly completed . . . The whole of this immense church — its columns, 
capitals, cornices, and pediments — the beautiful swell of the lofty dome 
... all Avere designed in lines of fire, and the vast sweep of the circling 
colonnades . . . was resplendent with the same beautiful light." (C. A. 
Eaton: Rome in the Nineteenth Century, 2:208.) 

23. Space to spire. From the wide opening between the colonnades 
to the cross on the top of the lantern surmounting the dome. 

34. Protoplast. Vsed apparently for protoplasm, a substance con- 
stituting the physical basis of life in all plants and animals. 

39. Into his musical palace came the wonderful Dead in a glorified 
form, and also Presences fresh from the Protoplast, while, for the moment, 
he himself in the ardor of musical creation felt himself raised to the level 
of these exalted ones. 

53. Consider it well. On the mystery of musical creation and on its 
permanence see Cardinal Newman's sermon on "The Theory of Develop- 
ment in Christian Doctrine." (Quoted in part, in Berdoe's Browning 
Cyclopaedia.) 

57. Palace of music: Cf . the description of the glowing banquet-room 
in Keats's Lamia. 

"A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the faery-roof, made moan 
Through-out, as fearful the whole charm might perish." 



NOTES 421 

The damsel with the dulcimer in Coleridge's Kubla Khan sings of Mount 
Abora, and the poet says, 

"Could I revive within me 
Her sympathy and song 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That with music loud and long 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome, those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there." 

In Tennyson's Gareth and Lynette (1. 270), Merlin says to Gareth in 
describing Camelot, 

"For and ye heard a music, like enow 

They are building still, seeing the city is built 
To music, therefore never built at all, 
And therefore built forever." 

There are also more ancient accounts of this union of music and archi- 
tecture. Amphion, king of Thebes, played on his lyre till the stones 
moved of their own accord into the wall he was building. When King 
Laomedan built the walls of Troy, Apollo's lyre did similar service to that 
of Amphion in Thebes. For an interesting account of "Voice Figures" 
see The Century Magazine, May, 1891. 

64. What was, shall be. For this faith in the actual permanence of 
what seemed so evanescent compare Adelaide Procter's Lost Chord. 

69. There shall never be one lost good. Whatever of good has existed 
must always exist. Evil, being self-destructive, finally "is null, is naught." 
This is the Hegelian doctrine. Walt Whitman said on reading Hegel, 
"Roaming in thought over the Universe I saw the little that is Good stead- 
ily hastening towards immortality. And the vast all that is called Evil I 
saw hastening to merge itself and become lost and dead." (Berdoe: 
Browning Cyclopaedia, p. 40.) 

81. A triumph's evidence. Failure in high heroic attempts seems to 
point forward to some more favorable future where noble effort is crowned 
with due success. Cf. Clean, lines 186-7: 

"Imperfection means perfection hid. 
Reserved in part to grace the after time." 

96. The C Major of this life. The musical terms in this passage are 
fully explained by Mrs. Turnbull and Miss Omerod in Browning Society 
Papers. Symbolically this line describes th' musician as he comes back 
to every-day life, proud because of the vision that has been granted him, 
but with a consciousness that experiences so exalted are not for "human 
nature's daily food," and that their true function is to send one back to 
ordinary pains and pleasures with a new acquiescence and with a recog- 
nition that "the common chord contains the rudiments of music." 

(In The Browning Society Papers are Mrs. Turnbull's Abt Volger, an'' 



422 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

three papers by Miss Helen Omerod: (1) Abt Vogler the Man. (2) Some 
Notes on Browning's Poems relating to Music. (3) Andrea del Sarto and 
Abt Vogler.) 

RABBI BEN EZRA 

Ben Ezra was an eminent Jewish Rabbi of the Middle Ages. His 
Commentaries on the books of the Old Testament are of great value. 
Mr. A. J. Campbell, who has studied Browning's poem in connection 
with the writings of the real Rabbi Ben Ezra, thinks that the distinctive 
features of tlie Rabbi of the poem, and the philosophy ascribed to him, 
were drawn from the works of the historical Rabbi, the key-note of whose 
teaching was that the essential life of man is the life of the soul, and that 
age is more important than youth. (Berdoe: Browning Cyclopaedia. 
Cf. also Berdoe: Browning's Message to His Times, pp. 157-72.) 

1. Grow old along with me. Cf. Saul, lines 161-2. See Matthew 
Arnold's " 'Tis time to grow old" for a beautiful statement of the pessi- 
mistic attitude towards old age. 

7-15. It would be folly, says the Rabbi, to" object to the unreason- 
ing ambitions, the fluctuations of desire, the hopes and fears of youth. 
In fact (11. 16-30), he counts these very aspirations towards the impos- 
sible, this very state of mental and spiritual unrest and doubt, a proof 
of the spark of divinity which separates men from beasts and allies 
them to God. It is a characteristic B.o\\'ning doctrine that conflict, 
struggle, the pangs and throes of learning, are the stinmli through which 
character develops. 

40-42. Cf. Saul 1. 295. 

49-72. In lines 43-48 the Rabbi had urged the subservience of the body 
to the soul but in these lines he shows that the life of the flesh is not 
to be underestimated, that ideal progress comes from a just alliance of 
the soul and the body. See Tennyson's St. Simeon Stylites for an account 
of the ascetic ideal in its lowest form. 

81. Adventure brave and new. In Prospice death is reckoned an ad- 
versary to be courageously met and overcome. Here the Ra];)bi is repre- 
sented as fearless and unperplexed as he contemplates the new life he will 
lead after death. In both poems we find unquestioning belief in an active 
and progressive and happy life after death. 

85. Youth ended, I shall try, etc. Compare Tennyson's By an Evolu- 
tionist. 

87. Leave the fire ashes. In this figure the "fire" stands for the 
conflicts of life, the "gokf" for whatever has proved of permanent worth, 
and the "ashes" for whatever has failed to stand the test of time and 
experience. 

92. A certain moment. The moment between the fading of the sunset 
glory and the shutting down of evening darkness is here selected as the 
moment in which to appraise the worlc of the day. In the application 
of the simile to the life of man (lines 97-102) the "moment" apparently 
refers to old age when, man has leisure and wisdom to appraise the Past. 



NOTES 423 

102. The Future. The life of his. "adventure brave and new" after 
death. 

109-111, In Old Pictures in Florence Browning applies this idea to the 
development of art. As soon as men were content to repose in the per- 
fection of Greek art (the thing "found made") stagnation ensued; the 
new life of art came when men strove for something new and original, 
even though their first attempts were criKle ("acts uncouth"). 

120. Nor let thee feel alone. The solitude of age gives a chance for 
unhampered thought. 

133-150. One of the things he has learned is that any judgment to be 
fair must take into account instincts, efforts, desires, as well as accom- 
plishment. 

151-186. This metaphor of the wheel is found in Is. LXIV: 8; 
Jer. XVIII: 2-6; Rom. IX: 21. Throughout this metaphor as Browning 
uses it, man seems to be "passive clay" in the hands of the potter, and 
under the power of the "machinery" the potter uses to give the soiil its 
bent. The tone of the whole poem is, however, one of strenuous en- 
deavor. Ardor, effort, progress, are the key-notes of life from youth to age. 
But life is Anally counted a divine training for the service of God, and in 
this training the pious Rabbi sees joined the will of man and the care anJ 
guidance of God. 

157. All that is, etc. Cf. Abt Vogler, 11. 69-80. 



CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS 

The idea of this poem was evolved from Shakspere's Caliban, a ^rran-^e, 
misshapen, flsh-like being, one of the servants of Prospero in The Tetnpr^t. 
He was the son of a foul witcli who had potent ministers and could con- 
trol moon and tides, but could not undo her own hateful sorceries, and 
who worshipped a god called Sete))os. Morally Shakspere's Caliban 
was insensible to kindness, had bestial passions, was- cowardly, vengeful, 
superstitious. He had keen animal instincts and knew the island well. 
He understood Prospero in some measure; learned to talk, to know tlie 
stars, to compose poetry, and took pleasure in music. 

Thou thoiifjhtest, etc. A quotation from Psalms 50:21. This sentence 
is the key-note of Caliban's theological speculations. 

1. Will. For "lie will" instead of "I will." Through most of the 
poem Caliban speaks of himself in the third person as a child does. But 
note lines 68-97, where Caliban rises to unusual mental heights under 
the stimulus of the gourd-fruit-niash and uses the first person. How is 
it in 11. 100-108, 135-6, 160? 

1-23. This portion of Caliban's soliloquy and the portion in lines 
284-295 give the setting for his speculations. The hot, still summer day 
creates a mood in which Caliban's ideas flow out easily into speech. The 
thunderstorm at the end abruptly calls hira back from his speculations 
to his normal state of subservience and superstitious fear. 



4LM SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

24. Sctebos. The god of the Patagonians. When the natives were 
taken prisoners by Magellan, they "cryed upon their devil Setebos to 
help them." Eden: History of Travaile. 

25. He. The pronoun of the cnird person when referring to Setebos 
is capitalized. 

31. It came of being ill at ease. Each step in Caliban's reasoning pro- 
ceeds froiii some personal experience or observation. In this case he 
reasons fi-om the llsh to Setebos. Caliban attributes to Setebos unlimited- 
power to create and control in whatever is comparatively near at hand 
and changeable. But Caliban had been affected by the mystery of the 
starry heavens. The remoteness and tlxedness of the stars had suggested 
a Quiet, unalterable, passionless force l>eyond Setebos, who must, there- 
fore, have limitations. He diil not make the stars {I. 21), he cannot create 
a mate like himself {\l. 57-8), he cannot change his nature so as to be like 
the Quiet above him (11. 144- T)). Hence, like the lish, Setebos had a dis- 
satistied consciousness of a bliss he was not born for. Discontent with 
himself, spite, envy, restlessness, love of power as a means of distraction, 
are the motives that according to Caliban's reasoning, actuated Setebos 
in his creation of the world. 

45. The fowls here, bea.^t and creeping thing. Browning's remarkably 
minute and accurate knowledge of small animals is well illustrated by this 
poem. For further illustration see Saul, the last soliloquy in Pippa Passes, 
and the lyric Thus the Mai/ne glidrth. 

75. Put case, etc. In determining the natural attitude of Setebos 
toward his creations, the formula Caliban uses is, Caliban plus power 
equals Setebos. Tlie illustration from the bird (II. 75-97) shows cruelty, 
and unreasoning, capricious exercise of power. The caprice of Setebos is 
further emphasizeti in II. 100-1 OS. 

117. Hath cut a pipe. In his attitude towards liis creatures Setebos 
is envious of all human worth or happiness if it is for a moment unconscious 
o! absolute dependence on him. 

150. Himself peeped late, etc. As Caliban gets some poor solace out 
of imitating Prospero, so one reason for Setebos's creation of the worUl 
was a half-scornful attempt to delude himself into apparent content. 
His imitations, his "make believes." are the unwilling homage his weakness 
pays to the power of the Quiet. 

170-184. The weaknesses of all living beings were special devices 
whereby Setebos could, through need and fear, torture and rule. 

185-199. Setebos worked also out of pure ennui. He liked the exer- 
cise of power, he liked to use his "wit," and he needed distraction. 

203-210. Setebos hates and favors hiunan beings without discoverable 
reason. 

211-285. It is impossible to discover a way to please Setebos. His 
favor goes by caprice as does Calibans with the daring siiuirrel and the 
terrifled urchin, who please one day. and, doing the same things the next. 



NCriKS 125 

would JjririK down v(!nK(!aMfC. 'i'Jio only i>liilo.sophy at which Caliban 
can arrive is that it In l)OHt not to bo too haj)py. Himulated misery is 
more likely to escape than any kIiow of happincHs. 

MAY AND DEATH 

In memory of Browning's cousin, James Silverthorne, the "Charles" of 
the poem. The "one |)Iant" of the last two stanzas is supposed to be the 
Spoiled pp.rHicaria, "a common weed with purple stains upon its rather 
larKc leaves." Af;cordinK to popular tradition this plant grew beneath 
tiie Cross and the stains were made by drops of blood from the Saviour's 
wounds. (Berdoe: lirowning Cyclopaedia, p. 208, quoting from Kev. 
II. Friend: Flowers and Flower Lore.) 

PROSPICE 

ProHpice ("Look forward") was written in the autumn following Mrs. 
Browning's death. "It ends with the expression of his triumphant 
certainty of meeting her, and breaks forth at last into so great a cry of 
pure passion that ear and heart alike rejoice. Browning at his best. 
Browning in the central fire of his character, is in it." (Brooke: The 
Poetry of lirowning, p. 251.) 

A FACE 

"No poem in the volume of Dramatis Peraonae is connected with pic- 
torial art, unless it be the few lines entitled A Face, lines of which Emily 
Batmore, the poet's wife, was the subject, and written, as Browning 
seldom wrote, for the mere record of beauty. That 'little head of hers' 
is transferred to Browning's panel in the manner of an early Tuscan piece 
of ideal loveliness." (Dowden: Life of Browning.) 

14. Correooio. A famous Italian painter of the Lombard school. 
These lines well describe his style. 

O LYRIC LOVE 

These are the closing lines of the first book of The Ring and the Book. 
The passage is generally and probably rightly interpretefl as an invoca- 
tion to the spirit of his wife. 

A WALL 

This poem was written and printed as the Prologue to Pacchiarotto 
and How he Worked in Distemper, published in 187(j. It was, however, 
given the title .4 [Vail when published in 1880 in Selections from Robert 



426 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

Browning's Poems, Second Series. The last two stanzas express one ot 
the fundamental ideas of Browning's poetry. Under the figure of the wall 
with its pulsating robe of vines and the eagerness of the lover to penetrate 
to the life within the house, he sets forth his thought of the barrier between 
himself and a longed-for future life in heaven. The "forth to thee" is to 
be interpreted as referring to his wife. 

HOUSE AND SHOP 

Three of Browning's poems, At the Mermaid, House, and Shop, refer 
with more or less explicitness to Shakspere. The last stanza in House 
contains a quotation from Wordsworth's Sonnet on the Sonnet to the effect 
that in his sonnets Shakspere revealed the most intimate facts of his 
life. At the Mermaid and House both combat this idea. In At the Mer- 
maid Browning in the person of Shakspere says: 

"Which of you did I enable 

Once to slip within my breast, 
There to catalogue and label 

What I like least, what love best, 
Hope and fear, believe and doubt of. 

Seek and shun, respect — deride? 
Who has right to make a rout of 

Rarities he foimd inside?" 

As applied to Browning the poems represent the indignation with 
which he regarded such personal revelations, such utterance of sighs and 
groans, as characterized Byron (The "Last King" of At the Mermaid); 
but they over-state the impersonal nature of Browning's own work which 
is frequently a very direct statement of his own emotions and views, 
while even from his dramatic work it is not difficult to find his "hopes 
and fears, beliefs and doubts." In stanzas 10-12 of At the Mermaid, for 
example, just after he has protested against "leaving bosom's gate ajar," 
he fully sets forth the joy, the optimism, of his own outlook on life. Shop 
is an indirect protest against the assumption that Shakspere wrote 
mainly for money, caring merely for the material success of his work. 
(See Poet-Lore, Vol. III., pp. 216-221, April, 1SS9, for BroAvniing's tribute 
to Shakspere. More directly the poem represents the starved life of 
the man whom "shop," the business necessary to earn a living, occupies 
"each day and all day long" with no spirit-life behind. 

HERVE RIEL 

This poem was written during Browning's second visit to Le Croisic in 
Brittany, in September, 1867. It was published in The Comhill Magazine, 
March, 1871. the proceeds of one hundred guineas being sent by Browning 



NOTES 427 

to the Paris Relief Fund, to provide food for the people after the siege of 
Paris. The story is historic. Mrs. LemojTie. in 1884, read Hervi' Rid 
to Browning and he then told her that it was his custom to learn all about 
the heroes and legends of any town that he stopped in and that he had 
thus, in going over the records of the town of St. Malo, come upon the 
story of Herv^ Kiel which he narrated just as it happened in 1692 except 
that in reality the hero had a hfe holiday. "The facts of the story had 
been forgotten, and were denied at St. Malo; but the reports of the French 
Admiralty were looked up. and the facts established." (Dr. Fumival! 
quoted in Berdoe: Browning Cyclopaedia.) 

"GOOD TO FORGIVE" 

This little poem was written and printed as the Prologue to La Saiaiag 
In 1878 but in the Selections it appeared as No. 3 of Pisgah Sights. 

"SUCH A STARVED BANK OF MOSS" 

Prefatory stanzas to The Two Poets of Croisic. 

EPILOGUE TO THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 

TJiis fate of the musician and the cricket has the same fundamental 
idea as the prefatory stanzas, the power of love to soften what is gruff 
and brighten what is sombre in life. 

64. Music's son. Goethe. The ' Lotte" of the next line, the heroine 
of Goethe's Sorrows of TFer^/ier, was modelled in part on Charlotte Buff, 
with whom Goethe was at one time in love. 



PHEIDIPPIDES 

^aipere, VLKW\Lev. Rejoicel we conquer! 

2. Daemons. In Greek mythology a superior order of beings between 
men and the gods. 

4. Her of the aegis and spear. Athena, whose aegis was a scaly cloak 
or mantle bordered with serpents and bearing Medusa's head. 

5. Ye of the bow and the buskin. Artemis or Diana, the huntress. 
Ancient statues represent her as wearing shoes laced to the ankle. 

8. Pan. The god of nature, half goat and half man. To him was 
ascribed the power of causing sudden fright by his voice and appearance. 
He came suddenly into the midst of the Persians on the field of Marathon 
— so the legend runs — and threw them into such a "panic" that, for this 
reason, they lost the battle. 



4L'S SELECTIONS FllUM BROWNING 

9. Archonn of Athen/t, topped hjj the tettix. Archon. One of the nine 
rulers of Athens. Tettix. A grasshopper. "The Athenians sometimes 
wore Kokien KrassiiopF)ers in their hair as badges of honour, because these 
Insects are supposed to spring from tiie ground, and thus they showed 
they were sfjrung from the original inhabitants of tlio country." (Berdoe: 
lirowning Cyclopaedia, p. 33().) 

12. lieach Sparta for aid. The distance between Athens and Sparta 
is about 135 miles. 

18. Persia bids Athena proffer slaves' -tribute, water and earth. The 
Persians sent to those states which they wished to subject, messengers 
who were to ask earth and water as symbols of submission. 

19. I'Jretria. An important City on the island of Eubcea. 

20. Hellas. CJreece. 

38. The moon, half-orbed. Spartan troops finally came to Athens 
after the full moon. 

47. Filleted victim. A victim whose head was decked with ribbons. 

62. Parncs. Herodotus refers in this connection to the Parthenian 
mountain. 

62. Erehos. llados, the abode of shades or departed spirits. 

83. Fennel. The (ireek word Marathon means fennel. 

89. Miltiades. One of the ten Athenian generals. 

106. Vnforeserimi one. The j)oet finishes the story, which he has 
hitherto allowed Pheidippides to tell for himself. 

106. Marathon day. In the month of September, B. C. 490. 

106. Akropolis. The stronghold of Athens. 

/ 
MULEYKEH 

The love of the Arab for his horse is traditional. "The story is a com- 
mon one and seems adapted from a Bedouin's anecnlote told in Rollo 
Springfield's The Horse and His liider." (Berdoe: Jirownino Cyclopaedia, 
p. "280.) 

WANTING IS— WHAT? 

This poem is in the nature of a prelude to the grouj) of poems published 
under the title Jocoscria, 1883. Each poem in this volume shows the 
lack of some element that would have brought the human action or ex- 
perience to perfection. 

8. Comer. The invocation probably refers to the spirit of love with 
its insi)iring, transforming i)ower. 

"NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE" 

This poem was published In Joeo.seria in 1883. It is doubtless to be 
grouped with the poems that refer directly to Mrs. Browning. 



iMOTES 429 



I'llE TATKIOT 



Rrowninj; says tlint this pooin has no dii-oct historical reference. 

II(< calls it "An Old Story." because in ail ancs men have experienced 

this unjust r(>v«>rsal of public ap|)roval. The poem is merely an 

iiuairiualive, dranialic i-.>i)r<'S(>nlal ion of the ticldeness of popular 



Ivor. 



INSTANS 'PYKAX.MS 



The tide of this poem means "Thrc^attMiing Tyrant." It conies 
from Horace's Ode on the Just Mnii, in Oilrn III, 3, i. The just man 
is not frifjlilened by the frown of the threatening tyrant — nun rullus 
instantis ti/ranni. Ari'lideacon Farrar r(>fers the incidents to perse- 
cution of the early Cliristians. The poem certainly deals with some 
period wht^n the ruler of a great realm had unlimited power to 
follow out ills most itisignificant animosities, and when just men and 
just causes had no human r(>cours(\ 

'I'hc* .uenerai idea of the poem is clear and foreilile, but there are 
uiany minor dilliculties of interpretation. 

6. M'liat iras his force? An ironic (lueslioii. The man .urovc^lled 
l)eeause he was powerless to resist, and (line KU because r(>slslane(^ 
iniuht brinu even worse punishment. 

11. ^yc^•e the ohjert, etc. If the man could be made rich, if his 
life could be crowded with pleasures, if there could be found relatives 
(U- friends whom he loved, then there would be obvious ways of 
liurting him. he would stand forth in sufhcient iuiportance to make 
the swing of the tyrant's hand effective. Hut as it is. the man's 
pcn-erty and friendlessness and meagerness of life render it difficult 
to (ind out vulnerable points of attack. II(> remains liidden (prrdKC) 
and, like the midge of the egg of an insect (nit), is safe through his 
very insigni(icanc(\ 

21. spHtJi. That whicli is poured o>it profusely. The flufion is a 
vessel with one handle and a long narrow neck or spout. 

35. 77/c;* a hiiinoi\ t^tc. The tyrant goes througli various 
changes of mood in his attitude towards his enemy. In lines :>r)-4.'> 
he feels a moment of couteniptuous compunction at tlie man's suflfer- 
ing, and recognizes the absurdity of a contest between a great king 
;iud a person as insignificant as a tricksy elf. a toad, or a rat. Rut 
m line -M liis mood turns. He perceives that the burden (>ivavu- 
men) of the whole matter lies in i\\o incredilily petty nature of this 
nncotuiuerable, batlling opposition to his will. He sees how the 
situation would awaken the wonder of the great lords who abjectly 
oliey his liglitest word, but he c(nu'ludes that, after all. the small 
becomes great if it vexes you. 

53. I soherlif. etc. Even tlu^ tyrant se(>s a kind of grotesque humor 
as he narrates iirst the elaborate plans to entrap and crush so seem- 



430 SELECTIONS FEOM BEOWNING 

ingly powerless a foe, and tlien the striking reversal of position when 
the man proves to have God on his side, and the tyrant becomes the 
one to cower in fear. 

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 

At the Congress of Vienna in 1815, Lomhardy and Venetia were 
assigned to Austria. Most of the inhabitants submitted to the 
foreign rule, but there were always small bands of patriots 
who stirred up revolutions against Austria. The chief revolution 
was that led by Mazzini in 1848 and when he was in exile he read 
this poem with much appreciation. In Pippa Passes (1840), in the 
story of Luigi and the Austrian police. Browning had already given a 
picture based on Italy's struggle for freedom. In 1844 he visited 
Italy and then wrote The Italian in England, which appeared in 184,1. 
This poem does not represent a definite historic incident, but such a 
one as might have occurred in the life of some Italian patriot. For 
a similar feeling towards Italian independence see Mrs. Browning's 
Casa Guidi Windoics (written 1848-1851). For earlier poems see 
Byron's Ode beginning "O Venice, Venice, when thy marble walls," 
Shelley's Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills, and the following 
sonnet by Wordsworth : 

" Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; 
And was the safeguard of the west : the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final day : 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
Of that which once was great, is passed away." 

8. Charles. Carlo Alberto, King of Sardinia. He had used severe 
measures against "Young Italy," the party founded by Mazzini. 

19. Mctternich. A noted Austrian diplomat and one of the most 
powerful enemies of Italian freedom. 

75. Duomo. The most famous chiu'ch in Padua. 

76. Tenehrw. Darkness. A religious service commemorative of 
the crucifixion. Fifteen lighted candles are put out one at a time, 
symbolizing the growing darkness of the world up to the time of the 
crucifixion. 



NOTES 431 

"ROUND US THE WILD CREATURES" 

The first interlude in Ferishtah's Fancies. These interludes are love 
lyrics which follow the separate Fables and Fancies of tho Persian Dervish 
Ferishtah, and state in terms of the affections the truth embodied in 
didactic or philosophical fashion in the fables. In the first fable, The 
Eagle, the Dervish observes an eagle feeding some deserted ravens. His 
first inference is that men will be cared for as the ravens, without effort of 
their own; later he sees that men should be as eagles and provide for the 
weak. The Dervish at once seeks the largest sphere of human usefulness 
with the words 

"And since men congregate 
In towns, not woods — to Ispahan forthwith!" 
The lyric protests against the temptation to self-centered seclusion on 
the part of those who are entirely satisfied in each other's love. 

PROLOGUE TO ASOLANDO 

The volume of poems entitled Asolando was, by a strange chance, pub- 
lished on the day of Browning's death. Most of these poems were written 
in 1888-89. The book was dedicated to Mrs. Arthur Bronson. The 
Prologue should be compared with Wordsworth's Ode on Intimations of 
Immortality. 

13. Chrysopras. The ruby and the emerald of this passage stand for 
rich red and green. The chrysopras is also green (an apple green variety 
of Chalcedony), but the first part of the word is from the Greek j^pvcro^ ^ 
"gold," and that may be the color intended here. 

SUMMUM BONUM 

The title means, The Chief Good. The poem came out In Asolando 
In 1889. 

EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO 

In the Pall Mall Gazette, Feb. 1, 1890, the following incident is given 
concerning the third stanza of this poem. 

"One evening just before his death illness, the poet was reading this 
from a proof to his daughter-in-law and sister. He said: 'It almost looks 
like bragging to say this, and as if I ought to cancel it; but it's the sin>ple 
truth; and as it's true, it shall stand.' " 

Compare this poem and Tennyson's Crossing the Bar. 

PIPPA PASSES 

Mrs. Sutherland Orr writes that while Browning was one day strolling 
through Dulwich Wood "the image flashed upon him of some one walking 
- . . alone through life; one apparently too obscure to leave a trace 



432 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

of his or her passage, yet exercisias a lasting though unconscious 
influence at every step of it; and the image shaped itself into the little 
silk-winder of Asolo, Felippa, or Pippa." 

Intkoduction 

Asolo in the Trevisan. Asolo, a fortified mediaeval town at the foot 
of a hill surmounted by the ruins of a castle, and situated in the center 
of tiie silk-growing and silk-spinning industries, is in the province of 
Treviso about thirty-three miles north-west of Venice. 

62. Monsignor. A title conferred upon prelates in the Roman Catholic 
church. This Monsignor is the chief personage in Part III., or Night. 

88. Martagon. A kind of lily witli light purplish flowers. The 
common name is Turk's Cap. Perhaps that suggested to Hrowning his 
comparison to the round bunch of flesh on the head of a Turk bird, or 
turkey. 

131. Possagno church. Designed by Canova who was born at Possagno, 
an obscure village near Asolo. 

181. The Dome. The Duomo or Cathedral in the center of the town. 
The palace of the Bishop's brother is close by. 

Morning 

28. St. Mark's. There is an extensive view from Asolo. Venice, with 
its cupolas and steeples, is seen to the east. Ottima detects the belfry of 
the Church of St. Mark. The towns of Vicenza and Padua are also 
dis("ernible. 

69. The Capuchin. A branch of the Franciscan order of monks. 
Their habit is brown. 

170. Campanula chalice. The flower of any one of a large genus of 
flowers with bell-shaped corollas. 

liMlOULUDK I 

27. Et canibua nostril^. Virgil: Eclogues, III.: 67. "Notior ut jam 
ait canibus non Delia nostris" — "So that now not Delia's self is more 
familiar to our dogs." The boy Giovacchino of whose poetry they are 
making fun evidently had ideals not in harmony with the ways of these 
Venetian art students. These "dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers," 
as Jules calls them, attack with quick, clever, merciless tongues whatever 
savors of idealism, aspiration, purity. Their revenge for the scornful 
superiority manifested towards them by Jules is to secure, by a well- 
managed trick, a marriage between him and a paid model. 

86. Canova's gallery. I'ossagno was the birth-place of the sculptor 
Canova, and the circular church t liere was designed by him. In the gallery 
at Possagno is his Psyche {Psiche-fanciulla, or Psyche the young girl); 
his Pietii (the mother with the dead Christ in her arms) is in the church 



NOTES 433 

111. Malamocco. A little town on an island near Venice. 

111. Alciphron. A Greek writer (about 200 A. D.) of fictitious letters 
famous for the purity of their style and for the knowledge they give of 
Greek social customs 

115. Lire. Plural of lira, an Italian coin equal to 18.6 cents in our 
money. 

117. A scented letter. Forged letters have represented this fourteen 
year okl, ignorant model as delicate, shy, reserved, intellectually alert, 
with lofty poetic and artistic ideals. 

117. Tydeus. One of the Seven Allies in the enterprise against Thebes. 
Jules is supposed to have modelled a statue of him for the Venetian 
Academy of Fine Arts. From Scene II., 14: we see that it is still in clay. 

120. Paolina. Some actress at the Phenix, the leading theater of 
Venice. 

140. Hannibal Scratcfiy. In jest they burlesque the name of Annibale 
Caracci, a famous Italian artist, and apply it to one of their number. 

Noon 

39. Thi3 minion. This favorite. Bessarlon (1395-1472), a learned 
Greek cardinal, discovered a poem, The Rape of Helen, written by a Greek 
epic poet, Coluthus, in the sixth century, and Bessarion's scribe copied it 
out on parchment with blue, red, and dark-brown lettering. 

43. Odyssey. Homer's account of the adventures of Ulysses. The 
quoted passage is in the Odyssey, Bk. XXII: 10. When Ulysses reached 
home he wreaked vengeance on tlie suitors of his wife. Antinous was the 
first to fall. The story of the "bitter shaft" blotted out by a flower is 
symbolic of the story of the hatred of Lutwyche which was robbed of its 
bitterness by Phene's love. 

60. Almaign Kaiser. The German Emperor. Swart-green is really 
"black-green;" here it means the "dark-green" of bronze. The Emperor's 
truncheon is a short staff, the emblem of his office. 

64. Hippolyta. The Queen of the Amazons on a fine horse from 
Numidia. 

69. Bay-filleled. The bay or laurel with which victors were crowned 
was supposed to be an antidote against thunder because it was the tree of 
Apollo. Pliny says that Tiberius and some other Roman emperors wore 
a wreath of bay leaves as an amulet, especially in thimder-storms. (See 
Brewer: Dictionary of Phrase and Fable; also Byron: Childe Harold, 
IV: 41.) 

61. Hipparchus. In B. C. 514 Harmodius and Aristogeiton conspirecT 
against the tyrants Hippias and Hipparchus, and carrying swords hid {■« 
myrtle, they slew Hipparchus. Cf. Byrou: Childe Harold. Ill: 20. 

"All that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord." 



434 SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

75. Parsley. An aromatic herb used in ancient time in crowns worn 
at feasts. 

86. Archetype. The original pattern or model. Beautiful colors 
and shapes in flowers, in flames, trees, and fruit suggested to the poet 
the beauty of perfect human forms. The rosy bloom of the peach bend- 
ing close over the bough and nestled among the leaves is sufficient to 
suggest rosy Umbs, and from that suggestion comes the whole imaginative 
picture of the dryad, the nymph of the woods. 

95. Facile chalk. Jules exults in the facility with which the artist, 
in any realm of art, manipulates his implements and his materials. His 
especial enthusiasm is for marble which he has come to regard as an original, 
primitive substance, containing in itself all other substances. It may be 
made to seem as light and clear as air, as brilliant as diamonds. Some- 
times as his chisel strikes it, it seems to be metal. Again it seems to be 
actual flesh and blood. At moments when the sculptor works witli swift 
intensity it seems to flush and glow like flame. 

181. I am a painter, etc. The poem by Lutwyche is professedly "slow, 
involved, and mystical." But Jules gradually perceives the purport of 
the words. Lutwyche's hate is to have its most hideous possible aspect 
because it is to appear suddenly through Love's rose-braided mask. 

272. The Cornaro. Catharine Cornaro was the wife of James, King 
of Cyprus. After his death she was induced to abdicate in favor of the 
Republic of Venice which took possession of Cyprus in 1487. She was 
assigned a palace and court at Asolo. She was generous, kind, just, and 
deeply beloved. Her life seemed to hold all possible external comlitions 
of happiness. The song is further explained in lines 275-9. 

306. Ancona. A lovely city in eastern Italy. 

Interlude II 

1. Bluphocks. Browning's note on this character reads, "He maketh 
his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on tJie j ust 
and on the unjust." 

2. Your Bishop s Intendant. The Bishop's Superintendent (w.ioso 
real name is Mafleo) has charge of the estate the Bishop has just inherited 
from his brother. The money Bluphocks has is the bribe given him by 
MafTeo to destroy Pippa, who is really the heir to the estate. Maifeo 
expects the Bishop to reward him well for this service. 

11. Prussia Improper. "The arm of land bounded on the north by 
the Baltic and on the south by Poland was long called 'Prussia i*roper' 
to distinguish it from the other provinces of the kingdom. Koni rsberg 
Is just over the boundary of Brandenberg." (Rolfe: Select Pocns of 
Browning.) 

14. Chaldee. A Semitic dialect. 

21. Celarent, Darii, Ferio. Coined words used in logic to designate 
certain valid forms of syllogism. 



NOTES 435 

24. Posy. A brief inscription or motto originally in verse, and suit- 
able for a riner or some trinket. 

26. Hoio Moses, etc. For the story of Moses and the plagues of Egypt 
Bee Exodus VIII. and X. For the story of Jonah (who was commanded, 
however, not to go to Tarshish) see Jonah 1. For Balaam and his ass see 
Numbers XXII: 22. 

32. Bishop Beveridge. There was a Bishop of that name, but of course 
Bluphocks is making a pun. 

34. Charon's wherry. Charon was a god of hell. It was his business 
to carry the dead across the river Styx. People thus carried over the 
Stygian ferry paid Charon by a small coin put between their lips. 

35. Lupine-seed. "In plant-lore 'lupine' means wolfish, and is sug- 
gestive of the Evil One." (Berdoe: Browning Cyclopaedia.) 

36. Hecate's supper. Hecate was a goddess of hell to whom offerings 
of food were made. An obolus is a silver coin worth about fifteen cents. 

39. Zwanzigcr. A twenty-kreuzer piece of money. 

47. Prince Metternich. A celebrated Austrian statesman. (1773- 
1859.) 

54. Panurge. A prominent character in Gargantua and Pantagruel 
by Rabelais. Hertrippa is a magician who gives Panurge advice on the 
subject of marriage. Bluphocks is simply racking his brain for words to 
rhyme with "Pippa," so that he may write doggerel poetry to or about 
her. For "King Agrippa" see Acts XXVI: 27. 

77. Carbonari. All persons leaving a city had to have a passport 
officially signed giving the destination and the date of departure. Luigi 
had obtained such a passport for Vienna for that night. It was, however, 
suspected that this was a mere trick to give a wrong notion of his where- 
abouts. If the passport should prove to be a pretense, other suspicions 
against Luigi would be confirmed; it would be taken for granted that he 
belonged to the Carbonari, a secret society of Italian patriots; he would 
be arrested and sent to the prison at Spielberg. But if he should go to 
Vienna he is to be let alone. The officers, are, of course, on the wrong 
track. If Luigi goes to Vienna it is to carry out his purpose of killing the 
tyrant. If he stays in Asola it means that he has abandoned that purpose. 

Evening 

6. Liicius Junius. This name comes easily to Luigi's lips because 
Lucius Junius Brutus inspired the Romans against Tarquin. 

14. Old Franz. The Austrian Emperor, Francis I. Luigi's fancy is 
caught by the echoes and the flowers, but they play into his dominant 
idea of the freedom of Italy. 

19. Pellicos. Silvio Pellico was an Italian patriot who had suffered 
a long imprisonment in Spielberg Castle. 

122, Andrea, etc. Three former Italian patriots who had conspired 
against .Austria. 



4:]G SELECTIONS FROM BROWNING 

136-143. Note in these lines how little Luigi really understands of 
the point at issue. His emotional temperament has been stirred to the 
point of desperate action, but the "ground for killing the king" he hardly 
knows. 

162. Jupiter. The largest of the planets. When a planet rises after 
midnight it l^ecomes a morning star. 

163. Titian at Treviso. Treviso is seventeen miles from Venice. 
Its cathedral contains a fine Annunciation I)y Titian which Luigi and his 
betrothed Chiari had planned to see togetiier. 

164. A king lived long ago. This song was published in 1H35 and 
later adapted for this poem. The song has a great effect on Luigi because 
beside liis mental picture of tiio hated Austrian ruler he now places this 
old folk-king who judged his people wisely, whose dignity and grace awed 
even a python, and whom the gods loved. The possi))ility of having good 
kings stirs his waning determination to rid the earth of evil ones. 

Intkrludr III 

6. The same treat. The feast of tlie girl is made up of fig-peckers 
(birds tliat feed on figs), lampreys (eel-like fish esteemed a delicacy), and 
red wine from lireganza, a town noted for its wines. 

17. ti firing' a come, etc. These girls are well differentiated. The 
"first girl" is set apart from the others by her superior refinement, by her 
longing for her country home, and i)y her unhappiness with Cecco. The 
"third girl" seems to be the leader in the plan against Pippa. 

22. Deuzans, etc. Varieties of apr)les. 

64. Ortolans. Birds about the size of larks, and an expensive delicacy. 

67. Polenta. A coarse corn-meal pudding. 

89. Great rich handsome Engliskman,. lUuphocks, who has been hired 
by the Intendant to lure Pippa into evil courses. 

NiOlIT 

1. Monsignor. The Bishop has come from Messina in Sicily to take 
possession of his dead brother's estate. The "Ugo" to whom he speaks 
is the Intendant mentioned at the beginning of Interlude II. 

4. Benedicto benedicatur. A form of blessing for the repast. "Let It 
be consecrated with a good saying." 

9. Assumption Day. The festival of the Assumption of tiie Virgin 
into Heaven comes August 25. 

36. Jules. This is the 'Jules of Noon. His liistory is thus carried on 
bf;yond the point wliero we left him at the close of his interview with 
Pheno. 

51. Correggio. An Italian artist (M94-153'l). 

72. Podere. (Plural, poderi.) A small farm or manor. 

83. Cesena. An Episcopal city about twelve miles from Forli. 

107. Millet-cake. A cake made of an Italian grain and eaten only by 
thf poorest classes. 



NOTES 437 

135. Letter i^o. 3. Tho Infonnal ion from Romo K^ hasod on a wronpr 
a8sumi)ti()n. Tiiocldor hrolluT liad an iufaiil lu'ir wliom Mioscc^ond hrotlicr 
emloavorod to put out of tlic; way in ordrr UuU iio ini)j;iit liiiiiHolf inherit 
the estate, lie hired MalFtM) (o destroy tiu) cliild, and, according to tiio 
Infonnation from Konie. Mall(^() (iid so. On tliis assuiui)tion Mafl'eo ia 
to 1)0 arrested and tlie money and hmd Kiven him by tho second brother 
to keep tho deed a secret are now to revert to tlio cliurch. 

164. .So old a story. In reality MalTeo lias heen moro astute than 
they thouK'ht. lie did not kill tlie child but kept it ready to jnoduce as 
the lH>ir to the estates if tho second brother at any time proved delinciiiont 
in th<i r(M|uired payments. 

174. Let us undcrsidnd one nnothcr. IIo bcllovcs that when the Hishop 
sees himself about to lose tiui «<state, he too will sliow himself ready for a 
harM:ain. The Mishop is simply to keep still and Malfeo will see tliat tho 
heir— who Is IMppa— shall be finally brought to shame and death. Tho 
Mishop Is to have tho estates, and MalFcH) is to keep his ill-tj;ott(ui ^ains 
and be Riven a chance to escape. Tho Bishop is aj)parent,ly listening to 
tlie tempter when ho hoars I'ippa's soti^. Its fresh lilting swetUness, and 
especially, perhaps, the wording of t h(i last line, t,ouch his heart and hiu 
conscience, and he suddenly orders Malfeo's arrest, at tho same time 
utteriuR tho prayer, *'lla\(^ mercy u|)on me, () (Jod." 

lOi'iLoouio 

2 7. A/y Zamc. Zanzo was (nidently tho "third Rirl" who took Pippa 
in chart^e at tho end of Intfiiudc, III. 

30. MoiiNit/rinr's projilr. Zarizo was apr)arontly talking to PIppa under 
tlie .MonsiKiior's window. lM|)pa broke off tho unwelcome talk by her 
sout(, and Zan/.e had hardly time to begin utsain when there came the 
noiuo of iho arrest of Malloo. 



APPENDIX 

(Adapted from the Manwdl for the Study of English Classics, 
with additions, by George L. Marsh) 

HELPS TO STUDY 
Browning's Life and Work 

What qualities had Browning's parents which influenced him in 
his work (pp. 7, 8) ? What was significant about his early educa- 
tion (pp. 9, 10) ? What poetic influences successively dominated his 
boyhood (pp. 10, 11)? Which proved most important? What 
j;oem most shows this poet's influence (p. 13) ? 

What literary association was Browning brought into after the 
publication of Paracelsus (pp. 15 ff.) ? Look up the importance 
of the various personages mentioned. Did the early enthusiasm 
over Browning continue (p. 17) ? What reason is to be assigned 
for the public attitude? 

What are the facts as to comparative early appreciation of 
Browning in America and in England (p. 23) ? Can you assign 
any reasons? Name some prominent Americans who became 
friendly with Browning. 

Sum up the most interesting facts about the early relations of 
Browning and Elizabeth Barrett (pp. 20 ff.). 

When did Mrs. Browning die and what was the result in Brown- 
ing's life (p. 27)? 

What arts other than poetry was Browning somewhat expert in 
(p. 24) ? 

What is The Eing and the Boole — its most characteristic pecu- 
liarity (p. 28) ? 

Wliat is most interesting about the events of Browning's later 
life, and his cliaracteristics during that time (pp. 29-31)? 

438 



APPENDIX 439 

During what period was Browning's most significant work pub- 
lished (p. 32) ? What was the predominant form of literature 
in England at that time? Who were the leading poets besides 
Browning? 

In what does Browning's frequent difficulty, for readers, consist? 
How is it mainly to be accounted for (pp. 34-36) ? 

Explain the dramatic monologue. Give other illustrations in 
addition to those mentioned on page 25. 

Discuss criticisms of Browning's versification (pp. 36-38), with 
illustrations in addition to those given by the editor. 

What is to be said in defense of the sort of language Browning 
puts into the mouths of his characters (p. 39) ? 

Is external nature prominent in Browning's work (p. 40)? Is 
his use of external nature accurate and detailed, showing adequate 
knowledge? Illustrate your conclusions. 

What is the place of Browning's interest in human nature as 
compared with external nature (p. 42) ? Tell something of the 
range and variety of Browning's characters (pp. 44 ff.). 

Find illustrations of the various prominent ideas of Browning 
in addition to those mentioned on pages 48 ff. 

Specific Poems 

What is the occasion for the first song from Paracelsus (p. 389) ? 
Its appropriateness and meaning for that occasion? Explain the 
allegory of the second song, from the hint given on page 390. What 
general tendency of Browning in dealing with nature does the 
third song illustrate (p. 390) ? 

Are the "Cavalier Tunes" to be assumed to show Browning's 
sympathy with the Cavalier cause? Make sure that the significance 
of the various proper names is understood (p. 391). This doesn't 
mean knowing a lot of details about the people mentioned; it 
merely means understanding why they are mentioned here. 

Note the occasion for "The Lost Leader" (pp. 391, 392) and 
discuss its fairness. Compare Whittier 's * * Ichabod. ' ' Note the 
remarkable use of specific words in ' ' The Lost Leader " ; in " Meet- 
ing at Night." 



440 APPENDIX 

Work out the geography and the time-scheme of "How They 
Brought the Good News," etc. Point out the best examples of 
galloping movement in the rhythm. Has the poem any historical 
foundation (p. 392)? 

What general truth as to Browning's interest in nature does 
"Garden Fancies" illustrate (see p. 40) ? 

Who is Assumed to be speaking in "Evelyn Hope"? Note hints 
as to age, relations with the dead girl, etc. 

See questions on page 394 as to " Love Among the Ruins. ' ' 
What is the effect of the peculiar stanza of this poem? What 
characteristic opinion of Browning does the poem express (p. 51) ? 

What sort of person is the speaker of ' ' Up at a Villa — Down in 
the City" (p. 394? Go into details as to his character and inter- 
ests. How much of this poem would apply as a general argument 
for the city as against the country nowadays? 

What period is alluded to in "A Toccata of Galuppi's" (p. 
395) ? Describe the state of society presented in the poem. What 
sort of music must Galuppi's have been? 

* ' Old Pictures in Florence ' ' particularly needs brief explana- 
tion of allusions (pp. 396-99), always with attention only to their 
relation to the general meaning of the poem (pp. 43, 397). Note 
the allusion to the political situation in Italy (explained p. 398). 

Does "De Gustibus" express Browning's personal feeling? Is 
it out of harmony, inconsistent, with "Home-Thoughts, from 
Abroad ' ' ? 

Note the biblical source of "Saul" (p. 400) and study carefully 
the way in which Browning has elaborated the scene and the action. 
What is the purpose of the numerous descriptive details in the 
poem? Are they appropriate to be put into the mouth of David? 
Note the climactic arrangement of David's songs to Saul, and 
trace the effect on Saul. Is the concluding section of the poem in 
any way an anti-climax? How does this poem take rank with 
others as to general beauty and nobility and power? What do you 
think of its metrical characteristics and effectiveness? 

What is the tantalizing thought mentioned near the beginning 
of "Two in the Campagna" (pp. 35, 403) ? Is there any appro- 
priateness in localizing this poem in the Campagna? 



APPENDIX 441 

Note the remarkable way in which actual details of the picture 
mentioned are brought out in "The Guardian- Angel. " Kecon- 
struct the picture as fully as possible from these hints. 

What is the thought relation between the last two stanzas of 
** Memorabilia" and what precedes? 

What good qualities of narration does the ** Incident of the 
French Camp" illustrate? Study the little flash-light of Napo- 
leon here given. 

Work out, from hints in ''My Last Duchess," the story that 
lies back of the poem. Characterize the Duke; the Duchess. To 
whom is the Duke assumed to be speaking? This poem is par- 
ticularly worth study as a typical dramatic monologue. 

Note the poems to be compared with ' ' The Boy and the Angel ' ' 
(p. 404). 

Study, in "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," the variations of 
meter to fit the sense; the peculiar and ingenious rhymes (how are 
they effective, and are they always effective?) ; the rapid move- 
ment of the narrative. 

Examine the ways in which the choice of details, the style, the 
meter, of ' ' The Flight of the Duchess, ' ' are made appropriate 
to the purported narrator; a sort of character sketch of him may 
be deduced from the poem. Compare the Duke and the Duchess 
in this poem with their counterparts in "My Last Duchess" -(hints 
on pp. 47, 49, 51). 

Who is assumed to be the speaker in "A Grammarian's Fu- 
neral," and what is his attitude toward the dead grammarian? 
What, in brief, was the grammarian's philosophy of life? 

Note the kind of details that contribute to produce the effect 
of mystery and horror dominating "Childe Koland to the Dark 
Tower Came." See suggested explanations of the poem (pp. 
407-8). 

Who is the speaker in "How It Strikes a Contemporary"? 
What details as to the poet here described can be applied to 
Browning (subject to changes of situation, etc.) ? 

Sum up briefly the action leading to and accompanying "Fra 
Lippo Lippi. " Are the bits of song always appropriately in- 
serted? Note the frequent references — a sort of asides — to the 



442 APPENDIX 

people assumed to be listening. What are we told about Fra 
Lippo's past? What ideals for painting are expressed (pp. 207, 
210) ? What is Fra Lippo's general philosophy of life (p. 211) ? 

What are the main facts as to the painter and his wife, to be 
read between the lines of ' ' Andrea del Sarto ' ' ? How is the nature 
background of this poem in harmony with its spirit? Find evi- 
dences of the central theme of the poem as stated on page 42. 
What line and a half expresses the gist of it? 

Find specific examples in ' ' The Bishop Orders His Tomb, ' ' etc., 
of the various characteristics of the Kenaissance spirit mentioned 
by Kuskin (p. 415). 

What reason does Cleon assign for inclining to believe in a fu- 
ture life? What, nevertheless, is his attitude toward Paul? 

What is the metrical form of ^'One Word More"? Pick out 
the most important things Browning tells in this poem as to his 
artistic aims and methods. By what comparisons is the strength 
of his feeling toward Mrs. Browning accentuated? 

Study the ^'argument" of ^'Abt Vogler" (pp. 419-20). What 
is Browning's idea as to the power and influence of music? Com- 
pare this poem with others by Browning (''Eabbi Ben Ezra," 
''Epilogue to Asolando," etc.) as an expression of optimism. Are 
its rhythmical characteristics appropriate to the supposed speaker? 

Summarize the most important teachings, especially as to the 
''conduct of life," found in "Eabbi Ben Ezra." Find parallels 
in other poems of Browning. Is this a highly poetical poem in spito 
of its strong didactic element? 

Explain how the quotation at the beginning of "Caliban upon 
Setebos" really expresses the central idea of the poem. What 
peculiarities of language are intended to indicate the half -brutish 
nature of Caliban? How does Caliban's attitude toward Setebos 
change, and why? Note the extremely skillful use of details as to 
little natural phenomena. 

Point out contrasts between ' ' Prospice ' ' and Tennyson 's ' ' Cross- 
ing the Bar." Are these contrasts typical of the two poets? 

Note the explanation of "House" and "Shop" (p. 426), as 
applied to Browning himself and to Shakspere. 

Are the variations of meter in ' ' Herve Eiel ' ' aids to the smooth 



APPENDIX 443 

flow of the narrative*? What is to be said of this poem in the 
matter of vividness? 

Who was Pheidippides — just what did he accomplish? Point 
out some of the most important devices used in the poem about 
him, to secure vividness and swiftness. 

Is ''Muleykeh" an effective narrative? Give reasons. 

Get together and compare all the poems that refer directly to 
Mrs. Browning. To Browning himself. Sum up his estimates, and 
discuss their truth. 

PippA Passes 

Note variations in meter in the Introduction. What variations 
in subject matter and spirit of the poetry do they mark? 

Is there any attempt to make Pippa's language appropriate to 
the sort of person she is? 

Does she show any unreasonable amount of knowledge of 
**Asolo's four happiest ones"? 

How much of an idea do we get of the past history of Ottima 
and Sebald; of their nationality, personality, etc.? How do we 
get this idea? How does Pippa's song affect them? What is their 
fate? 

Pick out the main details as to the deceit practiced on Jules — 
the reason for it, the principal results, etc. What is Phene 's 
attitude toward Jules? His first impulse on learning of the deceit? 
How does Pippa's song affect him, and why? What does he then 
do? 

From what purpose does Luigi's mother almost dissuade him, 
and by what arguments ? How and why does Pippa 's song influence 
him (p. 434)? What does he escape by going away? 

What is the situation as between the Bishop and the Intendant, 
and its relation to Pippa (see p. 435) ? What effect has her song 
and why? 

What is the effect of Pippa's holiday on herself? 

Point out two or three of the most beautiful figurative passages 
in the poem. Can you choose any particular passage as the strong- 
est, dramatically? 

What critical estimates have been made of Pippa Passes (p. 18) ? 



444 APPENDIX 



THEME SUBJECTS 

1. The life of Browning (pp. 7 ff.)- 

2. The Brownings in Italy (pp. 22 fe.). 

3. The historical setting of the ''Cavalier Tunes" (p. 381). 

4. Discussion of the applicability of * * The Lost Leader ' ' to 
Wordsworth (pp. 381, 382). 

5. A paraphrase of ''How They Brought the Good News" (pp. 
73-75). 

6. Venetian society at the time of Galuppi (pp. 385, 386). 

7. Browning's main views as to the painter's art (pp. 91, 200, 
213, etc.). 

8. Italy or England? — Browning's preference (pp. 99-104). 

9. How David restored Saul — a simple narration (pp. 105 ff.). 

10. Nature pictures in ' ' Saul. ' ' 

11. Allusions to Mrs. Browning in the poems (pp. 126, 239, 274, 
310, etc.). 

12. Character sketches of the Duke and the Duchess (pp. 135, 
136). 

13. A fully developed story of the Duke and the Duchess. 

14. Eetell the story of "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" (pp. 
141 ff.). 

15. Character sketches of Fra Lippo Lippi and Andrea del Sarto 
(pp. 200-222). 

16. Browning's knowledge of music (pp. 88, 247, etc.). 

17. An explanation, in plain terms, of the thought of "Caliban 
upon Setebos" (pp. 260-70). 

18. The stories of Herve Kiel, Pheidippides, Muleykeh (pp. 282, 
295, 302). 

19. The stories of Asolo's "four happiest ones." (Probably 
four themes.) 

20. How Pippa influences each of the "happiest ones." 

21. Character sketch of Pippa. 



ENGLISH VERSIFICATION 

For purposes of analysis the names given metrical ''feet" in 
Greek and Latin have been taken over into English, and some 
of them are so commonly used that the student should be familiar 
with them. 

The commonest foot in English is the iamh (or iambus), con- 
sisting of an unaccented sjdlable followed by an accented syllable, 
which may be marked as follows: 

alone 

A familiar line consisting of iambic feet is the following: 

I come I from haunts | of coot | and hern. 

The anapest, consisting of two unaccented syllables followed 
by an accented syllable (^ ^ '), is often used in connection with 
the iamb, and gives a more tripping effect to the line. The fol- 
lowing is an anapestic line (though the first foot is an iamb) : 

I gal I loped, Dirck gal | loped, we gal | loped all three. 

The trochee, consisting of an accented syllable followed by an 
unaccented syllable (' v^), is the opposite of the iamb. The fol- 
lowing is a trochaic line : 

I am I Merlin. 

The dactyl, comprising an accented syllable followed by two un- 
accented syllables (' v, ^), bears the same relation to the trochee 
that the anapest bears to the iamb. The following is a dactylic 
line (though the last foot is a trochee) : 

Half a league; | half a league; [ half a league | onward. 

Most English verse can be ''scanned" as consisting of these 
four kinds of feet. 

445 



44 G API'ENDIX 

Vf;rH4; Yiru'n in Enj(li«b h«vc \iccrt fomrnonly j(5vfr7i nnmcn Awnrd- 
jf)^ to fh«^ intni\K;r ntnl kifwl of frjH, or th»; riurnhfrr of nircMmin or 
aecctdn tunl th<! pr^^voilinjj tufirudl tnovcrncrtt. 

Thu» a lino of two dactyJH i» daatylic di/rnvUr: 

T4kfj hr.r rip 1 idmV^]^. 
A lifif- of thn;'; irochfAiH '\n trorhair, triw. titer: 

A Ittic ni four ttria[>c«tH i« anaprMir, tntrameier : 

\ miHiug I to th/f »tir|rrip, rind J/j>|rl«, /«n'l h/!;, 

'"f*h<r f;j<'t that the firxt foot Jh an inmb 'lo<!«< not afTfrt fhf prfvail 
nin niovcjnfui of th*; \iu(;.) 

A lino of iJvc iutu\)» in iamhia pfrntamalfjr : 

H6 411 I (\u.y U>un \ iU ufnm \ of b4t|tl6 rmcA. 

A lino witli MIX acc^mtx i« hrxamcJer; a linf; with »*!vcn arr'f'nt?<, 
hrptawctcr ; a line, with <rij{ht a^M'^ntn, oclawMcT ; but th<?h<' lawt 
two tcrniH an; not v^'ry rnu'di iiw^'l, (;f f'0(jrwj th*; adj^r^tivo indi- 
cating any kind of foot /nay i;(? jircfix<.'d to any on^; of the nounw 
indicating the number of feet, or of accents (which i» the Hanio 
thin«). 

It niiiHt f»<; (ind<!r".tood, in f<|'['lyirig the foregoing mat(?rial, tii;>t 
English metre do»!« not denian<l rigid uniformity. On the fontrary, 
the better the i>oet, UHtially, the more variety in diHtrii^iition o) 
Htre«»e« liierf^ ih likely to be. Word aeeentw and metrical aece-nt 
niUHt and do fall on the name Hyllable«. Therefore if at \S\^' b*; 
ginning of what i» otherwise an iambic line we find a word that is 
accented on th«! first syllable — a trochee, we do not make an iarnb 
of this word by giving it an unnatural and improper accent on th' 
second syllable. Instead, we recognl/>^! that there is a shift ol 
stress in the first- foot — a trochee is substituted for an iamiiuv 
Hiich a line is tiie following: 

Walking I ra/iut I th»' g/ir|dens 4nd | the h/ills, 

Huch shift of stress, or the substitution of one kind of fool for 
another, occurs si'.xy often and in dilT*refit j/arts of the line. It is 



AIM'KNDIX /J47 

Moi an oljj«'<',M(nml)I() irrcfj^Milarily, Imi a <\ovU:(s Inl,(iriliorwilly iih(m1 
lo Mccwro rliyMimi«'-jil varicly. In f'oririal Hc-aiiMion lincM hIioiiM Im 
ninrkiMl accordin^f to Hk; actual i'nil oi' \\u: Hti-(tHH(^H; an<l Oilliii^; a 
liiH< iatMl)i<', or tioclinic, or aiiu|i('Mlic, (»r iiuriyWr, Mhonid ncvor l)(» 
laluii In iiH'iiii fliat all il,M (Vcl. iriiiMt. mohh'Iiow or oilier he IvviHied 
into till' oiMt kind nnnifd. TIich*! (crinH oClen nmari only Miat. IIkj 
|ii<v;iilinj; nailrical niovitrrauii iw of llir kind (^|)(•(•,i^^^d. 

AnalyMiH of a brief paHMaj^e from "Merlin and the, (ih'nni" will 
indicate liovv varietl thn tnol rical inoveuienl of a [toeia may he: 

Yon llnii am | wrilcliinj^ (dnclyl nnd jrocliee) 

Tlie i.',ii'iy j m;ini|ei;in (i.'inihic, wiMi exhn, niUK n(«'d Hyl 

inlde ai <fnd; 
Willi <''yeH I of won|der, ( i;inil>i<',, willi exirn iinnecented nyl 

hilile nt end J 
I ;iin I M^-rlin f I roclinie j 

And I I ;ini dy|inj',, (iamhie, an al;oV(t; 

I :iiii I Merlin ( t rociiaic; 

Who I'ldllnw Mie (<l<'-;ini. finmh and nnnpeHl) 

Tlie only iiniformily in ilicMe linew, ohvioiiMly, \\^^H in ilie fuel, 
lli.tt eaeh IniM 1 wo HfreMMeH. Tlmy are all dinndcr, hiif inlliiii«dy 
varii'd an l,o llie kind of (V(d,, or the (UhI rilxil ion of ac(M!niM. MoHt- 
pOitniH nro not, ho varied an IIiik one, Init. Htiidenl.M miiMt. remernlier 
tlnit. ^reat- vnri<'ty in tliin re^^nrd iw tlioron^lily eoinpntihle willi 
(dTeeliv*! rliytlim and irrepronclialde po<)li<' tec|iiii<pie. 

TIk! (leH«ripti<Mi of Verne ('(irni iit \>y no nieniiM comphde when the 
prevnilinjr foot. nn<l the lenKlh of line Uie nmnlier of HlieMnen 
nre nnnied. It niiiitl l»e nnlerj whet her Hmc in lined, nnd if it Im 
iiHed, liow Mu5 rimeH Jire nrr;inj.M!i|. 

nianh vcrHf! 1h iiririrm-d ijunbic, penlnnieter fin* metre of 'I'lic 
itf,i/llH of llu; li'mfi, J 'ti 1(1.(1 i.Hf LohI, the iinrinie<| verne of HlmkH- 
pere'H pljH^M, ei<r. The t«!rni Idniik verne '\h wuV iiHi/ally applied to 
nnrinied verne thai iH not iamhie penlnniel.-r. 

The heroic, rotiplci. \h inniliie peiilnnieler rimed in pnirN t.lm 
metre of inoiit <»f the work i.f \)vyi\r\\ nnd I'ope, of ( iiddMinilll 'h 
l)(H(rl((l VtUaiic, <*f Oluiiieer'n l'r(do(',iie to Cdiihrhiiii/ 'I'dlcH, eie,. 



-i4> APrKNDlX 

Tht^ <vr>\<> :.j: >v).: : ; — iv.i^bic or tTwhaio tetranunor — ^is al> 
<\W!nio>^ — Tho moiTx-' of !ho main |^rts of Milton's L\<Ut'orxi ar. . 

i* : . - . 

«. - there ir.sy K» \^riou$ otlier kinds of i»«j»lH$. »«orii 

iwj; n> I^l .....v.Nr oi stjr>e!ssi>s ami tho i^revmiling feet: and tlie- 
''1ST W ; .vj..\ T,\^ — i^rouj^ of thrtv riminsj linos. 

Stanaii-c forots may be almost infinitely \-arievi. as to lenfttli «f 
u:u>s. kinds of foot, and rin>o-seiion»o. The method oomnMnly usu^" 
for indioatiwjj rimc^soh^^nes is to gi>>» tho letter « to tfce firs* rin 
in a stanw, ^ to tho sc-'ooiivi, %' to tho third, and so on. Thus all 
tho lij»os markeii a ri«>o tOijethor: thoso marked > Hme ^and of 
oowrsi* are ditforeat fi»m ««\ oto> I\>r example, turn to '"Garde^ 
Fanoies** ^^|v 76"^ : tho rin>o-scho»e is«i)b<9J»^«l4r<i. 

A ^iM?rvj»w is any ooml»natkHi of four lines. T«iny»u's I 
iff WiVTMw, for example, is writt«i in iamhio tetrameter quatimuis 
with rt»o rime-sx^heme « l» 1^ «, Twt* partioular kinds of qmtndns 
haw been given s^veial names of some imptMtanee, as follou^: 

The h«^^J .<r().ii^«» ^^'oommon metie** in tlM^ Vymn-boi^ts^ is a 
xysry sim)>W qitatrain ^^ r!>*^5>chomo »• lb # lb <«■ « l» <• ^: tl-v 

« s ^or <g anvl «'> with - vsos. tho h 's with three stietsses. 

The «r^«VM%* .<t«»i»jrw (as in wray''s •*EJe^'"> also runes « 1» « h 
hat the lines are pentameter, 

Jp9«4^ minA^ is a name S!iTe» the sexvn-line stansa «?ed by Cknuet 
in his *'Maai of Law's T^jiJo,"' **Olerk's Tale," ete.; rime-sclien 
« lb « Ik > r ir; iambio peat3u»oter, 

Ott^urm rimm xs an oi^tline stan» muoh itsesl by Italian poHs, 
and in SnfiKsii by Byran in iV«ii wFimii, ete.: nme-^ehnae « lb « lb « |i 

.-: ia3Bil»k pen tam e t er, 

rhe ^^ensmiui «f«iu« w»s invented by Speaser for his Fmtri 
V«Kn«<> a»d has bee« sinee ns^l nMMe than any other lon^ stamn 
ia EnglisiL Its Tun e»g<h e nM ; is«h«hhck<><';all sunbie peatai- 
nieter oxif>^pt the Inai Use, whkli is hexaaieter ^a^ e«Iled an 
Alexandiine), 



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